


One More Miracle

by azriona



Series: Hearts [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, M/M, Mpreg, Omega John, Omega Verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-15 11:34:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 68,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1303447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six weeks ago, Sherlock went to finish off Mrs Moriarty - leaving John and their daughter behind. Again. This time, though, John's the one with the secret, and John's getting tired of waiting for Sherlock Holmes. Part Three of the Heart ‘Verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Kizzia for the Brit-pick and to EGT for the beta. And here it is, the much fabled and ballyhooed Heart3. I hope you find it worth the wait.
> 
> Just to note there are ten chapters and an epilogue - for some reason I can never keep the counter on AO3 from resetting itself! But no worries - it's finished and updates will occur every Wednesday morning my time.

There were times when Mycroft Holmes would have rather done anything but occupy his “minor” position within the British government. Up to and including actually occupying what would be in fact a minor position within the British government. 

The truth of Mycroft’s position was that it could only be termed as “minor” in the strictest sense of the word, because Mycroft was, in fact, answerable to any number of ministries and offices throughout not only London, but embassies and international organizations of numerous nations besides. He often thought of himself as the linchpin, the binding force, the voice of reason in a world that tended toward anarchy. He read all, he saw all, and if he did not actually _control_ all, he at least understood a great deal of what other men only saw in parts. 

Mycroft Holmes was minor, yes, in that the power he was able to wield was quite limited. But he was also the complete picture, and that made him very powerful indeed. Many powerful men claim to see the entire picture. Few do. Mycroft let them think they understood their actions, and as long as those actions didn’t infringe too much on the overall warp and weave of the human tapestry, he allowed them to continue thinking so. 

The problem with Mycroft’s position was that it meant that not knowing was a failure. For any other office within any other governmental structure, not knowing would have been something one blamed on others: for Mycroft, there was no one to blame, because it was his job to know. There was no piece of information he was not allowed to have. 

It made him the obvious point of contact during Sherlock’s years away. If there was something Sherlock needed to know in order to complete his attempt to destroy Moriarty’s web, then it could be assumed that Mycroft knew it. And if there was something Sherlock needed to know about the health and welfare of John Watson during Sherlock’s time away – then Sherlock could be assured that Mycroft would know it as well. 

“You knew,” said Sherlock calmly to Mycroft, the day he returned to London and found John in a coma, and a daughter he’d never known waiting for him at 221B. 

Mycroft had known about Emily. Mycroft had chosen not to tell Sherlock. It had been a difficult decision on his part, to keep Emily’s existence a secret from her father, but one he based on his long history with his brother. And then there was John’s own belief and trust that Sherlock’s mission would be that much more difficult if he’d known she existed. Of course, John had thought Sherlock was dead, had been speaking metaphorically of the difficulty in Sherlock’s decision to jump from the top of St Bart’s if he’d known of the pregnancy…but Mycroft had long since learned to make logical leaps in such matters. 

Besides, Mycroft agreed. For Sherlock to leave behind John was one thing. John was…well, John. He had suffered love and loss and would undoubtedly mourn and move on with his life. Mycroft knew that Sherlock hoped to return and find John waiting – but it was more important to Sherlock that he return and find _John_ , no matter his circumstances. 

But to leave behind Emily – Mycroft did not think his brother had the strength. If Sherlock knew about Emily, he would return to London and he would forget the men trying to kill him and his and they would all die for it. Mycroft, holding a newborn Emily in his arms for the first time, standing in the weathered little flat on Baker Street, had made the decision to simply never tell Sherlock a thing about her, and in doing so, save them all. 

It was easier for Sherlock not to know what he missed. Easier for Mycroft, too, for a time, and he stayed away until that first Christmas, when John insisted he be part of her life. Pulled him into the role of the doting uncle, and the little girl had him wrapped around her finger before New Year’s Day. 

Mycroft often envied Sherlock his ignorance. 

Which was perhaps why he would have greatly rather _not_ known that Sherlock had, in fact, known about her all along. Had played them all for fools. And Mycroft had never realized that when Sherlock asked about John, he had expected more than the answer “John is well”. 

“Mycroft,” said Sherlock, standing in his office. He looked tired, dark circles under his eyes, hair a bit longer than normal. Four weeks on from the fire in the cottage, the burned tinge to his skin had faded, and his breathing was easier – but he still held himself stiffly, as though he were pushing himself through the motions. 

Mycroft walked past his brother. It was early morning and there was much to do; he didn’t have time for the games Sherlock played. Sherlock could just _wait_. Mycroft sat at his desk and opened the files and read them, frowning, scratched his name and initials by the tabbed marks, and then set them aside. He folded his hands and looked up at his brother, waiting impatiently, rocking from foot to foot. 

“Sherlock,” said Mycroft coldly. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company today?” 

“I’m going off the grid.” 

Mycroft didn’t blink. “I wasn’t aware that this required an announcement. You’ve gone off the grid before.” 

“This is different,” said Sherlock. He pulled his mobile from his pocket, and gave it a long look before tossing it lightly in his hand. He set the mobile on Mycroft’s desk, nudging it until it was perfectly in line with the rest of the items. “When did you last see John and Emily?” 

Mycroft stared at the mobile. “Four days ago. Mummy has decided that Emily would benefit from regular instruction in ballet.” 

Sherlock said nothing. 

“I understand she’s quite accomplished for only a few weeks along. The kitten follows her around everywhere.” 

Sherlock nodded. “And…John?” 

Mycroft shrugged, knowing perfectly well that the movement would annoy Sherlock. “He appeared to be in good spirits.” 

“Did he ask after me?” 

“I did not give him the chance. But he seemed as if he knew that I would bring you up.” 

Sherlock waited, his shoulders back, his eyes anywhere but Mycroft’s face. Mycroft wondered how long it would take before Sherlock asked. Only a few moments, as it turned out. 

“Did he take the letter?” 

“No,” said Mycroft. “I left it for him. I cannot be sure he picked it up.” 

“He wouldn’t have, not while you were in the room,” said Sherlock, and turned to reach for his scarf. 

It was Sherlock’s indifference that seemed to trigger Mycroft’s sudden burst of anger. “You’ll be happy to know that John opens his laptop at least once a day and sits in front of it, and although he hasn’t actually typed anything, this shows marked improvement from when he simply stared out of the window all day. I believe he’s at last resigned to your inability to sustain a relationship when all the cards are on the table.” 

“Sod off, Mycroft.” 

Mycroft shrugged. “You asked.” 

“It’s not—” 

“If you say it’s not your fault, Sherlock Holmes, I will have armed guards escort you from the premises and never lift a single finger to help you ever again,” said Mycroft coldly. “You had _ample_ opportunity to fix this mess you’ve created.” 

“ _I didn’t know_ , Mycroft.” 

“Oh, _Sherlock_.” 

“Oh, _fine_ , I knew about Emily, of _course_ I knew about Emily. The moment I stepped off the roof at Bart’s, I knew about Emily. I _didn’t_ know that John couldn’t feel the bond. If he had, he would have known it was all a trick, that I was still alive. He was supposed to _know_ , Mycroft.” 

“You were going to break the bond,” said Mycroft. 

Sherlock said nothing. He leaned forward on Mycroft’s desk and waited, his eyes focused squarely on his brother, accusation pouring off of him. 

_You knew about Emily too, little brother. And you never said, and you still left._

Mycroft turned back to his paperwork. “I am very busy, Sherlock. And I believe you have a plane to catch.” 

“There will be another flight,” said Sherlock indifferently. 

“Will there?” asked Mycroft innocently, and Sherlock glared at him. 

“I’m giving you one responsibility, Mycroft. _One_. Watch over them.” 

“And that is exactly what I have done,” said Mycroft sharply. “Kept them safe from you in the same way I kept you safe from them. It is a sad fact of life that in order to keep all of you _safe_ , you have decided that you must be kept _apart_. Fools, the lot of you. You should have taken John with you.” 

“And leave Emily behind?” 

“I meant four years ago. You should have trusted him, Sherlock. He would have gone to the ends of the earth with you, he would have kept your secret and helped you. You know what he is capable of doing – you’ve known it all along. I think you might even love him for it—” 

“Don’t talk about things you don’t understand, Mycroft. It only makes you look idiotic.” 

“I will keep them safe, Sherlock,” said Mycroft. “But don’t for one moment believe that I’m keeping them safe for _you_.” 

Sherlock turned away, and Mycroft watched his younger brother’s shoulders shake as Sherlock struggled. 

“I’m going to end this,” said Sherlock as he reached for his coat. “When you see John, tell him that I’m tired.” 

“Tired,” echoed Mycroft. 

“He read the letter; he’ll understand,” said Sherlock. 

“And then what? Once it’s over. Back to the estate, to beg for John’s forgiveness?” 

Sherlock wrapped the scarf around his neck. “No. He’s already told me that it’s not his forgiveness I need.” 

* 

John woke in the wide bed, eyes springing open in the sunlight. He breathed for a few moments, let himself settle and his body acclimate to the daylight, and quietly began to assess himself. 

Respiration, a bit fast for having just woken without nightmares, but perhaps not so surprising given the circumstances of the previous few weeks. Circulation, a bit slow; his fingers were cold, despite being curled under the warm duvet. 

Bond, strong, a settled knot just under his heart. John knew people liked to think of the bond as a tangible thing, a string connecting two people together, but John was a doctor and knew that bonds had no corporeal forms. And yet he could feel the quiet pull, the sense that Sherlock was out there, alive, moving and breathing and going about his day. When he thought of Sherlock, he felt the quiet warmth, a round, soft glow that made his limbs relax and his heart settle. 

John pushed himself out of bed, feeling startlingly awake. A glance at the clock confirmed that he hadn’t overslept, and yet he felt better rested than he had in months. Perhaps it was that he felt the bond much more strongly that morning; perhaps it was the warmth in the day. 

John showered and dressed. He shaved, carefully, and realized that he was humming, and with that realization, that he was…happy. 

“Daddy!” called out Emily when he reached the dining room, where breakfast was laid out on the sideboard. John had resisted the rigors of a formal breakfast when they’d arrived, but Emily was captivated by the idea of something a little fancier than cold cereal or toast with jam, and Aurora was ready to indulge her granddaughter in anything the little girl desired. There were some battles that John didn’t particularly want to fight. Breakfast was one of them – and anyway, John had a weakness for poached eggs on toast. 

“Good morning, Em,” said John as the little girl stood up on her chair to give him a hug and a wet kiss. “Fruit, please.” 

“I ate a banana,” said Emily, and she pulled back and wrinkled her nose. “You smell funny.” 

“I think your grandmother put mango shampoo in my shower,” said John, and Emily made a face. 

“I heard that,” said Aurora Holmes, without looking up from her newspaper. “Emily, we do not stand on chairs.” 

“Yuck,” said Emily, and sat back down with a bounce. “Mangos are horrible.” 

“I agree,” John told her, and went to fetch his own plate. The poached eggs looked perfect, but he passed over them in favor of toast and an apple. Aurora eyed the plate as he sat down. 

“The eggs not to your liking?” 

“I feel like an apple,” said John. “Good morning, Aurora.” 

“Good morning, John,” said Aurora, and she turned a page. “I rather thought Emily and I would have a walk in the woods this morning. Care to join us?” 

“I have writing to do.” 

“Hmm,” said Aurora, and John had the idea that Aurora knew exactly how much writing John had not done in previous mornings. She turned to look at John, and he thought he saw her nostrils flare, just barely. “Mango shampoo, was it?” 

“Or something,” said John with a shrug. “I didn’t read the label, I just used it.” 

“No matter,” said Aurora. “We’ll see you for lunch, if you don’t want to join our excursion. Emily, be a dear and ring for your father’s tea.” 

Emily bounced up on her knees and reached across the table for the little bell, which she rang with great enthusiasm, almost knocking out one of the candlesticks. One of the maids appeared within moments, bearing a teapot and a little pitcher of milk. She poured the tea; John thought she spent a half minute too long lingering at his shoulder. It took a pointed glare from Aurora before the maid left the room. 

John reached for the tea, but had barely taken a sip when he felt his stomach begin to roll. The room spun and his thoughts swirled in his head. For a horrible, terror-inducing moment, John thought he was going to be sick right then and there at the breakfast table. 

Aurora’s voice cut through, the former morning haughtiness cut by the sudden concern. “John? Are you unwell?” 

John blinked and set the cup back down on the table. He pressed his hands into the wood, felt the wood seem to press back up at him, and tried to breathe the nausea down. He didn’t dare answer Aurora – it would require opening his mouth, and he tried to remember the last time he’d felt this ill… 

Oh. 

_Oh._

Without even thinking about it, John zeroed in on the bond. _Please, God, no. Let him be alive._

And there it sat, comfortable, solid, strong and _Sherlock_ , and John thought he felt the sweat actually materialize on his brow. 

“Daddy?” 

John looked up from the tea to his daughter, sitting across from him. She looked lost and ethereal, all in one go, and John was instantly reminded of the last time he’d been sick from his perfectly normal, non-sweetened tea, and how the first words out of his mouth were something he’d instantly felt the need to apologize for saying. 

“Sorry, baby,” said John, and it was so close to that moment in the kitchen in 221B nearly four years before that the laughter rolled right out of him, and he laughed and laughed and laughed until tears were pouring out of his eyes as quickly as the giggles escaped from his throat. 

“Oh, dear,” he heard Aurora say, and John tried to sit up, but couldn’t quite manage it with the laughter shaking him from head to toe. He heard Emily say something, and Aurora respond, and then the door closed, and Aurora pulled him to sitting up. He had one very quick glimpse of her concerned face before she slapped him, rather hard, on his cheek. 

Had John not been hysterical with laughter, he might have hit her back. Instead, his mouth dropped open with shock, and he rubbed his cheek ruefully. 

“Good _Christ_ , Aurora!” 

“Well,” said Aurora loftily. “I have no smelling salts handy, and you were clearly unable to control yourself, and so as needs must.” 

“How badly have you been wanting to do that, anyway?” asked John. He could still feel the giggles bubbling, but it wasn’t quite as pressing now. He rubbed his cheek as he eyed his tea, and then scanned the rest of the table for sugar. 

“It varies from day to day,” said Aurora. “Now. I don’t suppose you’re going to share your amusement, are you?” 

John thought about it, and then shook his head. He spied the sugar near Aurora’s plate, and reached for it. “Where’s Emily?” 

“Somewhere,” said Aurora impatiently, and she frowned as she watched John drop three sugars in his tea. “You don’t take sugar with your tea.” 

“Perhaps I fancy a change.” 

Aurora frowned, watching him, and then her eyes widened. “Oh. _Oh._ John!” 

John sighed. Leave it to a Holmes to put things together quickly… “Please don’t.” 

“Oh…I…” Aurora covered her mouth with her hands. “I won’t say a thing.” 

“Good. Then let’s pretend there isn’t a thing to say.” 

Aurora sat on her chair, quivering. John lifted the tea cautiously, and when his stomach didn’t appear to stage another rebellion, began to drink. 

The sugared tea was better than he remembered, and John didn’t think he needed much more confirmation than _that_. 

“It was here, wasn’t it?” asked Aurora, her voice equal measures of excitement and caution, and John shook his head. 

“Aurora…” 

“Yes, of course it was,” continued Aurora, growing in excitement. “You haven’t had a heat since, and that was six weeks ago – ah! Not mango shampoo at all, that’s just your scent beginning to shift a bit, isn’t it? Reacting with the shampoo, no doubt. I thought you looked different this morning, you came in and I said to myself, Aurora, there is a man who is at home in himself, I think today is going to be quite special.” 

John groaned and put down his tea. “Aurora.” 

Aurora lifted her hands. “I won’t say a word. I haven’t said a word! I’ll pop off right now and Emily and I will go walking in the woods and perhaps we’ll have a little discussion about the birds and bees and butterflies.” 

“Fine,” said John, giving up. “Just…fine.” 

Aurora leaned over and squeezed John’s shoulder, and let her hand rest there a moment. “Do…do you want me to ring Mycroft?” 

John tensed. “Why?” 

“He does know where Sherlock is,” said Aurora. “He could pass along a message.” 

John shook his head. “No.” 

Aurora faltered. “No?” 

“Not yet,” amended John. He paused. “Aurora, I appreciate it, but…” 

“Of course,” said Aurora, and she pulled her hand back from John’s shoulder. “We’ll see you for lunch then, won’t we?” 

John nodded, and waited until Aurora had left the room before burying his head in his hands. 

_Pregnant._ Again. 

John felt the giggles try to escape, but this time the hysterics didn’t return. Just as well – he didn’t relish the idea of anyone returning and giving him another slap to snap him out of it. Ridiculous enough to be forty years old and pregnant for the second time. 

And it _was_ ridiculous. John had never really believed the superstition that alphas and omegas were the most fertile of combinations, with every heat resulting in pregnancy – because there were always exceptions, particularly in more recent years with the creation of birth controls and suppressants. And it didn’t matter if you were an alpha and omega, sometimes people just weren’t genetically compatible with each other. 

But John and Sherlock together were two for three now – three heats, two pregnancies, and John wondered how the hell they’d managed to dodge the proverbial bullet on their first heat together. 

Maybe because one of them hadn’t _left_ immediately afterwards. That was a rather grim thought. 

John rested his hand on his stomach, just below the knot of his bond. Not corporeal, no. But…no less present. He’d felt it with Emily, and wanted desperately to believe that it was Sherlock, that Sherlock was alive and well and that everything he’d seen that day at St Bart’s was a magic trick. That his one miracle was Sherlock coming home. 

He was wrong, and then he was right, and here he was again, feeling the bond, and wondering. 

Except…Sherlock was alive. He had no doubt of that now. Mycroft would have told them otherwise. The bond he felt – that was Sherlock, and not the new baby. John felt that as strongly as he did anything else. 

John breathed, felt his hand rise and fall above his stomach, and stood up carefully, waiting for the nausea to return. It didn’t. 

Mycroft would know where Sherlock was – Aurora was correct about that. One call to Mycroft, and just a few words, and within a day or two, Sherlock would know, and come racing back, and… 

Then what? Reconciliation, recrimination, arguments and tears and maybe a punch or two. And then they’d fall into bed together and they would ignore the larger issues (“Why did you lie to me?” “Why did you run from me?”) and the baby would be born and they’d go on ignoring the issues and maybe live the rest of their lives that way. 

That wasn’t what John wanted. Not really. He wasn’t going to call for Sherlock with a cry for help, pull him away from the last task he’d ignored for so long. _Sorry, Mrs Moriarty, can’t play your game, my John needs me by his side, helpless omega, you understand._

Helpless omega, John’s _arse_. 

John left the dining room and went upstairs. Emily was playing on the stairs, jumping from one to the other, cheerfully dismantling her braids with one hand while she held onto the railing with the other. 

“Gran said it’s a secret,” she told her father accusatorily. 

“What’s a secret?” asked John. 

“Why you were laughing. I wanted to know the joke,” explained Emily, and John knelt in front of her. 

“I wish I knew,” said John, and kissed Emily’s forehead while she frowned and made a face. 

“That doesn’t make _sense_ ,” she complained. “Why were you laughing if you didn’t know the joke?” 

“Because,” John told her. “I _didn’t_ know the joke.” 

Emily frowned at him. “You’re weird.” 

“Thank God for that,” said John, and tousled his daughter’s hair. “I’ll see you at lunch, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” said Emily, and continued hopping down the stairs. 

The maids had been through the room while John had been down for breakfast. His bed was neatly made, the towels hung in the lavatory to dry. His pajamas were folded and slipped under his pillow, exactly as he preferred, and John thought he could smell lavender and thyme in the air. It was meant to be pleasant, but John wondered how he’d ever found it anything but cloying, and thought he ought to mention it to Aurora, so that she could instruct the maids not to use it in his rooms again. 

For the next few months, anyway. 

The letter was on the top shelf in the wardrobe; John pulled the envelope down and sat on the bed to open it. A single sheet of paper, covered in Sherlock’s handwriting; John held it in his hands, unfolded, and thought about reading it. He’d only read it once, and then he’d folded it and put it on the top shelf under the jumpers and tried to forget all about it. It wasn’t as though he’d memorized it, not on a single reading, but small phrases remained in his mind, curling around each other and twisting slightly, and John was sure he didn’t remember them in quite the same way that they were actually written. 

Of course Sherlock was in contact with Mycroft; of course Mycroft was in contact with him. John should never have doubted that the two brothers who professed such animosity toward each other would cling to the other in adversity. John supposed he’d never stood a chance to come between them – not that he wanted to, at any time. 

And now…a letter. It was more than he’d had before, John supposed. He could have picked up his mobile and rung Mycroft, told him he had a message for Sherlock, and trusted that Sherlock would receive it. “I’m pregnant.” “The suppressants weren’t the only thing to fail.” “Come home.” 

And Sherlock would. John had no doubt about that – he’d have come home without fail, without finishing his job, because he hadn’t with Emily, and John had no doubt that despite anything he said in his letter, he would have done it. John knew exactly why Sherlock hadn’t wanted to know about Emily, hadn’t wanted to know anything but the fact of her existence, because had their roles been reversed, and John been denied any part of Emily except that she lived – not known her name, her sex, the color of her eyes and hair – he would have wanted to know _all_ of her. 

The idea of John pregnant – Sherlock wouldn’t have been able to resist. Better to pretend he didn’t know. 

John understood that, as well as he understood why Emily loved her Granny Aurora, and the house where she was a princess. Sometimes it was easier to believe in a dream, when your surroundings gave you no reason to believe otherwise. 

No. He couldn’t call Mycroft. Mycroft couldn’t be the intermediary. There couldn’t be _any_ intermediary. 

John didn’t have to read the letter to know exactly what it said. 

_Spain is nothing like Mexico but I imagine you are here anyway._

Spain then. John took a breath, and went to pack. 

* 

It was a simple thing to get on a plane and go. The real problem was leaving the estate. John knew that while he and Emily weren’t exactly prisoners, no one was very keen on them leaving. It had everything to do with one attempt being made on their lives already (well, two, in John’s case), and while John understood their concern, that didn’t mean he intended to follow their intentions blindly. 

John supposed it was simply a matter of luck that Harry Watson happened to be visiting that afternoon. 

“Christ, it’s strange visiting you here,” complained Harry. “I don’t know how you can stand being in that house – I feel like I’m going to knock over something priceless just by breathing.” 

John chuckled. “Is that why you never want to stay inside?” 

“Yes. No! It’s nice outside, and exercise is good for you.” 

“Harry, the last time you came, it was snowing, and you demanded we walk around the pond for an hour.” 

“It wasn’t even sticking,” insisted Harry, and she crossed her arms over her chest and stuck her hands under her armpits for warmth. “Anyway, Emily likes being outside, she can play with her kitten. And I’d have thought you’d be glad for a few minutes respite from Mummy Dearest.” 

“Oi,” protested John. “Aurora is a lovely woman and she’s being endlessly kind.” 

“She doesn’t watch me,” said Harry darkly. “She watches where I’ve been to see what I broke in my wake.” 

John rolled his eyes. “You’re imagining things.” 

“Maybe,” said Harry. “Heard from Sherlock lately?” 

“No,” said John shortly, and resisted the urge to ask about Clara. He folded his arms and stared intently at Emily, just on the edge of the pond with the kitten. “Em, kittens can’t swim!” 

“I know, I’m _‘splaining_ that!” Emily called back. 

“I think Gladstone knows that already, sweetie!” Harry called to her niece, and glanced over at John. “You’re not asking me about Clara.” 

“That’s because I’m a kind-hearted soul who doesn’t want to intentionally injure anyone,” said John loftily, and Harry snorted, as he knew she would. 

“Berk,” said Harry, and John wasn’t entirely sure that she meant him. 

“Tell you what,” said John, “I’ll ring him now. Can I borrow your phone? Mine’s out of batteries.” 

“Sure,” said Harry casually, and pulled it out of her pocket to hand to him. “I hear that happens when your phone is tapped.” 

“Speak a little louder, and in the direction of the trees, why don’t you,” grumbled John, and squinted at Harry’s phone. “You don’t think….” 

“Your brother-in-law gave me very explicit instructions,” said Harry cheerfully. “I’m not to visit outside certain hours, or tell anyone where I’m going when I do come by, or bring anyone to see you without prior authorization. Oh, and under no circumstances am I to attempt to take you or Emily off the estate for any reason whatsoever.” 

John stared at the phone in his hand. 

“This isn’t your mobile,” said John slowly. 

“Of course not. It’s one of those pay-as-you-go phones. There’s twenty quid on it, and I’ve never used it, and a friend paid cash for it, so Big Brother will need an extra ten minutes to find you. Maybe fifteen if you’re lucky.” 

John leaned over and kissed Harry’s forehead. “You….you _did_ this?” 

“Really, the only question I have for you is why it took you this long to _ask_. Don’t tell me you hadn’t figured out you were being kept here for your own good.” 

John chuckled, and quickly typed a message into the phone, but before he finished, Harry covered the screen with her hand. 

“Are you really texting him?” she asked quietly, so serious that John looked up to meet her eyes. 

“Not exactly,” said John. “I don’t know how to get in touch with him. Not directly, and I don’t want Mycroft’s help.” 

“Then…” 

“A taxi, to get me to the airport.” 

Harry’s eyes widened. “You…you’re going after him?” 

John shrugged. “My turn, I suppose.” 

Harry took the phone from John and with one swift move, deleted the text. 

“Oi!” 

“Hush,” Harry ordered him, and quickly placed a call. John struggled to get the phone back, and they wrestled while the call went out, but as soon as it was answered, the fight went out of John almost immediately. 

“Hello,” said Lestrade’s voice on the other end. “Are we a go?” 

“Yep,” said Harry, and disconnected the call. She handed the phone back to John with a smirk on her face. “You tosser. You really thought we wouldn’t want to _help_?” 

John took the phone, unable to quite comprehend what had just happened. “Was that Greg Lestrade?” 

“So here’s what’s going to happen,” said Harry, endearingly cheerful as she ignored the question. “We’re going to walk back up to the house in about ten minutes, Emily in tow, and I’m going to sit for an absolutely fantastic tea during which I’m going to fret about knocking over everything in the sitting room. You’re going to see me to my car, and wave me goodbye, and then you’re going to go for a walk in the woods while Em takes a nap.” 

“Emily doesn’t take naps.” 

“She will today,” said Harry confidently. “Don’t worry about it, she’ll be fine. You’re going to walk through the woods on the other side of the pond. There’s a little trail back there, follow the trail to the right, it’ll take you to a road, and that’s where you’ll find the car.” 

John couldn’t decide whether or not he wanted to laugh or cry. “How long have you been planning this?” 

“Ages,” said Harry smugly. “Ever since Big Brother told me I couldn’t take my niece to McDonald’s for lunch. The tosser.” 

John glanced over at Emily. “I won’t be able to say goodbye to her.” 

Harry followed John’s gaze. “How long do you think you’ll be?” 

John shrugged. “I don’t know.” He paused. “The only times I’ve ever slept away from her was when I was in hospital, you know.” 

“I know,” said Harry gently. She reached and took John’s hand. “Look. If Big Brother lets me, I’ll come back tomorrow, and every day until you return.” 

“He’ll think you had something to do with my disappearance,” John warned her. 

“Well, that is the idea – we’re hoping he sends his goons to follow me, at least until tomorrow morning when you’re safely out of the country, and then I’ll let them catch me. I don’t much relish being on the run forever.” 

“Em will be all right,” said John, looking at his daughter, in a way he hoped was convincing. 

“Of course she will,” said Harry. “So will you.” She rested her head on John’s shoulder. “Something happened, didn’t it? Something’s making you go to him now.” 

“Yeah.” 

Harry was quiet. “Don’t suppose you’re going to tell me.” 

John wanted to – he thought Harry might understand, actually. Or not, given her own history with Clara. And Aurora knew already, which meant that Mycroft would know soon enough. 

But somehow, John didn’t quite want to say it. With a pang, he wondered if this was how Sherlock had felt, not wanting to recognize John’s pregnancy, because it would have meant acknowledging its existence. And sure enough, the baby propelled John to Sherlock now – but somehow, it wasn’t quite real, not until Sherlock knew. 

“Not yet,” said John. “I’ll tell you first when we’re back. Is that all right?” 

“I ought to extract some sort of payment for all the trouble you’re causing,” teased Harry. 

“I’ll let you feed Emily full of ice creams and sweets, and then release her on Mycroft.” 

“Oh, lovely, that’ll do nicely.” Harry looked at her watch. “We ought to go in for tea now.” 

John nodded, and felt a curious flutter in his stomach. Not the baby, far too early – this was something else. 

Excitement. Anticipation. Worry. The subterfuge was starting now, a slippery journey that would end with him and Sherlock in a room together, and a secret between them laid bare. 

John suddenly couldn’t wait, and he called for Emily to head back to the house.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys remember liking the massively long flashback chapters! :)

John had woken from the coma three days ago, and according to Sherlock, he was two-and-a-half days overdue from being released from hospital and sent home. To Sherlock’s frustration, however, he was the only one who held this opinion. The doctors seemed insistent that John remain in hospital, under the watchful eyes of the nurses who flitted in and out of his room at every possible and inconvenient moment to take temperatures or administer pain medications, to check his sutures or deliver meals that neither John nor Sherlock ate. 

Sherlock would rather have stayed in the room with John, but Emily fell asleep sometime after dinner on the chair in John’s room, and John insisted that Sherlock take her home for the night. Emily would wake as soon as they stepped into Baker Street, and she would fuss at him and her toys, cranky and irritable, before he would finally manage to settle her down near midnight, playing one song or another on his violin. 

The first night, Mrs Hudson watched from the doorway as he lowered the violin, a curious smile on her face. 

“It’s all right, dear,” she said, in a low whisper. “If you want to go back, I’ll listen for her.” 

Sherlock didn’t say anything; he kissed Mrs Hudson’s cheek, and went. John was asleep, and never knew he returned, and Sherlock left as soon as the sun started peeking through the curtains, so that he’d be home when Emily woke, and the day began again. Emily fussing over breakfast, refusing to sit still or drink her milk, wriggling when it was time to change her nappy, arguing over the importance of a jacket. 

By the third day, they had settled into an easy routine. Waking, sleeping, eating…waiting. Sherlock hated it. 

Sherlock should have been able to read the doctor when he came into John’s hospital room; it was what he did, after all. But what the doctor said still took him by surprise. 

“Congratulations, Dr Watson,” said the doctor, after he’d taken John’s vitals and checked his charts. “I think it’s time for you to go home.” 

Even John in his hospital bed looked startled. “I woke three days ago.” 

“And you’ve passed every minimum requirement for discharge. You can answer basic personal questions, you’re reasonably mobile, your incision and broken bones are healing nicely, and you show no signs of continued seizures or slipping back into the coma. The aphasia is already abating. Dr Watson, you don’t actually want to stay in hospital, do you?” 

The doctor’s eyes twinkled, and John threw the thin sheet and blanket off his legs. 

“No, I don’t,” he said emphatically, and tried to swing his legs off the bed. Sherlock sprang up from his chair to help him, tumbling Emily, perched next to him, onto the cushions. 

“Home?” she asked hopefully. 

“Home,” said John. 

“Home,” echoed Sherlock, and as much as he liked the word on his tongue, he couldn’t help but wonder what would happen once they arrived. Perhaps Emily would fall asleep in the car, and they’d put her to bed together, smiling by nightlight, and then bundle off to bed themselves. And in the morning, Emily would be bright and chipper, and toddle off to school and Lestrade would ring with a case and he and John would be off and running… 

No. John wouldn’t be running. Perhaps he’d consent to letting Sherlock push him in a pushchair… 

* 

The homecoming had gone to plan perfectly: Sherlock had successfully dodged the car Mycroft had waiting for them, and instead bundled them into a taxi, which meant one less favor Sherlock owed to his brother. Mrs Hudson had met them on the front step, and offered them tea and biscuits before going upstairs, which meant John was given a few minutes to recover before tackling the seventeen steps leading to their flat. 

Emily, overexcited to have John home, raced up and down the stairs, pulled on John’s arm when he didn’t move quickly enough, and at one point, literally spun in circles until she collapsed on the floor. 

“Little love,” said Mrs Hudson adoringly, and John smiled wanly at the child. Sherlock saw the exhaustion in his eyes, and decided they’d waited long enough to go upstairs. 

The stairs took a while. John didn’t want help, Emily didn’t want to hold Sherlock’s hand, so she scampered up and down in front of them both, while Sherlock remained a step behind, worried that they’d tumble to the bottom in a heap of limbs and cloth. When they made it upstairs in one piece, he breathed a sigh of relief. 

The evening passed; Sherlock played the violin while Emily brought John every book she owned, snuggled under his arms for long minutes, danced in circles to make him smile. John sat in his armchair, eyes heavy with exhaustion, and the smile never left his face. 

And then came bedtime. 

“Daddy,” insisted Emily, her fingers clenched on John’s sleeve. 

“Daddy is tired,” explained Sherlock. “He’s had a very difficult day. I’m perfectly capable of putting you to bed.” 

“No. _Daddy_ ,” repeated Emily, stubbornly. John began to push himself out of his chair and onto his feet. 

“I _can_ do it,” said Sherlock, watching John’s arms shake. “I’ve put her to bed the last few nights. Haven’t I, Emily?” 

“No,” said Emily, and held more tightly to John. 

“I’m sure you have,” said John. “She’s just missing me. It’s all right.” 

Sherlock listened to John make his careful way upstairs with Emily, his feet scraping along the steps and his hand sliding on the banister. It was exactly as grating as someone’s fingernails scraping alongside a blackboard. Sherlock lifted his violin to his chin in a fit of pique, and played to cover the sounds. 

He was still playing when John came down again, some time later. John glanced at him before collapsing on the sofa near the door. 

“It might wake her up,” he said, and Sherlock heard what went unspoken. _Please stop playing._

“It never has before,” said Sherlock, and kept playing. 

John leaned back on the sofa. “She wanted me to sit with her until she was asleep.” 

“Mrs Hudson said to let her fall asleep on her own.” 

“It’s better, yeah, but…” John shrugged. “Tonight’s a bit different. New rules.” 

New parent, thought Sherlock, and lowered the violin. “I can play you both to sleep.” 

“What I’d really like is a cup of tea.” 

“Tea will keep you awake.” 

John’s voice had an edge on it, even if he did smile. “I think I’ve slept long enough the last week, don’t you?” 

Sherlock set the violin down on his chair; when he turned back to John, he saw John’s gaze still on the instrument, focused there as if he was thinking something he almost wanted to say. 

_Don’t leave it where Emily can reach it._

“Stop thinking,” said Sherlock, and John’s gaze flickered up to meet his eyes. 

“I wasn’t.” 

“Yes, you were. You’re terrible at it,” said Sherlock, and knelt in front of John, rested his hands on John’s knees, and leaned in to kiss him. 

John’s lips were cool and chapped, but he opened his mouth easily. Sherlock moved one hand behind John’s head, held it in place, pushed into him until John was back against the cushions. Sherlock kept pushing into him, tasting and taking. John was quiet in a way he didn’t really remember – John had never been quiet in their kisses before. He’d given as good as he got – but now, there was something missing. Something holding John back, or maybe keeping him from responding the way Sherlock remembered he could. 

Sherlock kissed harder, desperate to find it, wanting to know what was wrong. Wanting to _fix_ it. 

The cry from upstairs broke into the kiss. Sherlock pulled from John’s mouth with a faint pop, and John looked up at him with heavy eyes, breathing hard. 

“Daddy! _Daddy_!” 

“Emily’s awake,” said John, and Sherlock nodded, unable to pull away just yet. “Sherlock,” said John gently. “You have to let me up.” 

“I’ll go,” said Sherlock. 

“Daddy!” 

“She wants me.” 

“It’s all right,” said Sherlock, and he pushed himself off the couch, wondering how he’d managed to get that far on it in the first place. 

Emily sat in the center of her bed, sobbing. Sherlock knelt by the bed and reached for the little girl. 

“Emily—” 

Emily wriggled out of his hands. “No. _Daddy_ ,” she said, insistent, and still sobbing, slid off the bed and marched to the door. She pointed to the hallway and gave Sherlock such a petulant glare that Sherlock found himself on his feet and walking back out of the room, bemused at the audacity of the child. 

The moment he stepped into the hall, the door slammed behind him, and he heard Emily call out again, this time much louder, “DADDY.” 

John waited at the bottom of the stairs. 

“She threw me out,” said Sherlock, still a bit befuddled. 

“Did she?” John was almost amused. 

“I’m perfectly adequate to the task at hand. I don’t understand why she is insistent that _you_ be the one to cater to her every whim.” 

“It’s not every whim, it’s bedtime,” said John, as he started to go up the stairs. “And she’s two and a half. You can’t reason with a toddler.” 

“She understands logic.” 

“Not really, no,” said John, and he took Sherlock’s hand as he passed him on the stair, and squeezed his fingers. “It’s all right. I won’t be long.” 

He wasn’t. He came down the stairs and stood in the doorway, swaying just a little, and Sherlock took his arm and led him into the bedroom, sat him down on the bed, and began to help him undress. 

“I’m not tired.” 

“We’re not sleeping,” said Sherlock, and untied John’s shoes. 

“Sherlock.” John rested his hand on Sherlock’s head, and Sherlock slid his shoes off. “I…I don’t think I can….” 

“Not that either,” said Sherlock to the floor, and pushed himself up to unbutton John’s shirt. “You’re still recovering from the broken ribs and the surgery; you won’t be in any condition for lovemaking for several weeks.” 

John nodded, and let Sherlock continue to undress him. When all that was left were his pants, tee shirt, and socks, Sherlock gently tipped him over onto the bed and pulled the duvet over him. 

“Rest,” said Sherlock. He rested his hand on John’s arm, already thinking of the music he’d play to lull John to sleep. 

“Sherlock…” 

John’s eyes snapped open, and he shifted under Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock changed his mind, and sat on the bed next to him, trying not to shift the mattress too much. 

“Wanker,” said John, mostly into his pillow, and Sherlock’s stomach lurched. 

“John,” he began. 

“No, let me…wanker. Tosser. Arsehole. Lying cheating—” 

“I didn’t cheat.” 

“ _Let me finish_ ,” said John, and took a breath. Sherlock saw the flash of pain across his face, and after a moment of hesitation, he stretched out on the bed beside his bondmate. 

“Go on,” said Sherlock, quietly. “If this is the part where you tell me exactly what you think of me.” 

John opened his eyes. “You’re so good at deduction. You tell me.” 

“I know I left you in an impossible situation,” said Sherlock. “Pregnant and alone and everyone believing I was dead. I accept that you might hate me for it, that you might never forgive me. But do not, for one moment, accuse me of something I did not and could not have done.” 

John snorted. “And what didn’t you do, Sherlock?” 

“I didn’t cheat,” said Sherlock, cold. He thought briefly of the hotel room in Dublin, the omega looking up at him with dark and dilated eyes – and pushed the thought away. Nothing had happened, not in the end. 

“It might have been easier if you had.” 

Sherlock nodded his head, briefly, acknowledging it. “It would have broken the bond. Is that…something you would have wanted?” 

“No,” said John quickly. He sighed. “No.” 

Sherlock nodded. The room was still for a moment, the air heavy with so much that went unsaid. Sherlock finally turned on his side to face John; he lay so close that all Sherlock could properly see was John’s face. His eyes, closed and dark; his lips, colorless and chapped. John breathed evenly, carefully, as if he was monitoring his own breaths and trying to remain calm. 

John’s eyes opened, and Sherlock was caught in their blue, looking back at him. 

“I’m going to wait my entire life before you apologize, aren’t I?” 

Sherlock opened his mouth, and closed it again, unsure how to respond. “I—” 

“I can forgive you for leaving me, Sherlock,” said John. “But I’m not sure I can forgive you for leaving Emily.” He paused. “I’m not sure Emily can forgive you, either.” 

Sherlock nodded, his skin rubbing against the pillow. John might as well have been on a bed a thousand miles away, for all that he felt so close. “I…I knew you might not.” 

“I didn’t say I didn’t,” said John quickly, and he touched Sherlock’s cheek. His fingers were cold. 

“You still owe me a punch,” mumbled Sherlock, pressing up into John’s fingers. 

“Later. You said we talked, while I was sleeping. Tell me what you said.” 

“Why?” 

John snorted. “Because you seem to think it was important, even when you dismiss it as dreams. And…I think I forgot what you sounded like, some days.” 

Sherlock closed his eyes, breathed, and began. 

He talked, his voice low and quiet in the dark room, and as he talked he remembered the strange scent of the Mexican flowers, the rumble of the train speeding across Canada, the hustle and bustle and crowded streets of Japan with the endlessly and impossibly polite Japanese, all refusing to tell Sherlock where to go. John smiled and chuckled when he saw the humor which Sherlock did not, and was impossibly quiet in others, when Sherlock talked of the men who’d died by his actions. 

At one point, he reached out, and brushed his hand through Sherlock’s curls. Sherlock’s voice hitched, briefly, as he fought with the instinct to shove over and kiss him, push John back against the mattress and cover him, run his fingers up John’s shirt, against his skin, taste his mouth, listen to the soft moans in the back of John’s throat. Let the frenzy take over, shade the world in a reddish haze, lose himself in John, the scent of him, the feel of him, the warmth of him. 

He didn’t realize that he’d done it until the moans turned into groans of pain, and Sherlock pushed himself up, off John, whose face was tightly closed again. The red haze at the edge of his vision faded away. John bit his lip, as if trying to keep himself from crying out. 

Sherlock pushed himself off John, nearly off the bed entirely, and sat on the edge, gripping the sheet between his fingers. He tried to slow his heart rate, tried to control his breathing. Slowly, the world clarified again, and with crystal clear sight, Sherlock felt the sickening fall of his stomach. 

As surely as if he reached out and twisted John’s arm, he’d hurt him. Simply with a kiss. 

“Are you all right?” he asked, finally. 

“Yeah,” said John, a bit ragged. 

The room was quiet, except for the distant sound of traffic on Baker Street, the creaks and clanks of the house settling around them. A rush of water through the pipes as Mrs Hudson, in her own flat, flushed the toilet. 

“He was going to kill you,” said Sherlock suddenly, his voice a bomb in the quiet flat. 

“I know,” said John. 

“You are not taking this the least bit seriously,” said Sherlock, frustrated, and felt John’s hand on the small of his back. 

“Don’t need to,” said John. 

“I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“You can’t hurt me more than you already did,” said John quietly, and Sherlock closed his eyes, and thought of John crying out, the way his eyes were screwed shut, the trust he’d seen in them before he broke it. He wondered if trust could be repaired. 

“I’ll leave you to sleep,” said Sherlock, and rose from the bed. 

“I want you back,” said John into the pillow. 

Sherlock rested his hand on the doorknob. “I know. When you’re well.” He opened the door. “I’ll be in the next room for a while, if you need me.” 

John said something, giggling, into the pillow. Sherlock didn’t quite catch it; he thought John was asleep anyway before he closed the door. 

Sherlock stayed outside of the room, plucking idly at the violin, until he was sure John was asleep. He crept into the room, removed his clothes, and crawled under the duvet next to John. A thin ray of moonlight illuminated a square on the foot of the bed, where John’s foot lay, and Sherlock reached out with his toes to touch it. John sighed in his sleep, and with their feet entwined, Sherlock closed his eyes and slept. 

It could have been ten minutes later, it could have been hours. It was still night when Sherlock woke, the bed lurching a little, as Emily crawled in between them. She kicked at their feet, and John rolled onto his back, pulling his toes away from Sherlock. Emily wriggled until she was under the duvet, snuggled up next to John, Elfin tucked under her arms. Her back was to Sherlock, and not one bit of her touched him. She held herself away as if he didn’t even exist. 

Sherlock watched as John settled again, Emily at his side, and they both sighed together, complete. 

* 

Morning was much the same. 

“Blackberry,” said Emily at breakfast, when Sherlock presented her with toast and strawberry jam. 

“There isn’t blackberry, and strawberry is very nice,” said Sherlock. 

“ _Blackberry_ ,” said Emily, thunderous, and let out a howl that sent Sherlock down the stairs and banging on Mrs Hudson’s door for a teaspoon of blackberry jam. 

“Pink,” said Emily, when it was time to put on her clothes, and Sherlock tried to pull the blue dress over her head. 

“You have worn pink the last three days,” said Sherlock, desperately tired of pink. 

“ _Pink_!” howled Emily, and Sherlock found the last, too-small pink dress which only fit over Emily’s head by way of squashing her nose. 

“I think the dress is too small for you, Em,” said John when they came downstairs. 

“She insisted,” said Sherlock, and watched as Emily crawled up onto John’s lap. The dress rode high and showed the nappy underneath. 

“There’s leggings in the bottom drawer, Sherlock, she can wear those to keep her legs warm.” John frowned as Emily shifted. “Em, why are you wearing a nappy?” 

“Would you rather her go without?” asked Sherlock, wondering if irrationality was contagious. He went into the kitchen to look for his test tubes. 

“Yes. She’s been potty-trained. Em, don’t you remember going to the potty, like a big girl? We worked on it all last weekend.” 

“No,” said Emily. 

“You were very good at it by Monday morning—” John’s voice trailed off. “Oh.” 

Sherlock stepped back into the room. “The weekend before the accident.” 

John sighed. “I told the teachers at school, but not Mrs Hudson. Bloody hell.” He turned Emily on his lap and looked at her. “Em. You don’t have to wait for me to use the loo. Papa can take you, or Teacher Holly, or Mrs Hudson, or Uncle Mycroft.” 

Sherlock snorted, and John’s mouth quirked. “All right, maybe not Uncle Mycroft. But I’ll give you a hundred percent increase in your pocket money, Em, if you ask him when I can see.” 

“She gets pocket money?” asked Sherlock. 

“No one ever understands that joke,” said John with a sigh. 

Emily hopped off John’s lap and began to pull him. “Potty!” 

John took a breath and started to rise from his chair. 

“I’ll go,” said Sherlock, dubiously, and John shook his head, which was something of a relief. 

“ _Daddy_ ,” said Emily firmly. 

“No, it’s all right. Next time.” 

Sherlock listened to them talk in the loo, John’s low tones full of praise and encouragement. Emily’s higher chatter, half-song and half-laughter. He could imagine the little girl swinging her legs as she sat on the toilet, and he listened as John let out a ridiculous cheer and helped Emily flush the toilet and wash her hands after. 

He found the test tubes in one of the upper cabinets. A brand-new box, unopened, covered in dust. John would have thrown the old ones away, of course, thinking he was dead and gone, but he’d clearly missed these. 

“All done,” said John, as they came back out, and Emily looked entirely satisfied with herself. “Em, go upstairs with Papa and he can help you pick out some knickers and leggings to wear.” 

“No,” said Emily. “Daddy.” 

“No,” said John. “Papa.” 

“ _Daddy_.” 

“It’s all right, John,” said Sherlock, as he stared at the test tubes. “If she wants you instead of me.” 

“No, it’s not,” said John tersely. “Em, I want to be surprised with which ones you pick. Go on.” 

Emily considered this, and then scampered up the stairs without bothering to stop for Sherlock. He glanced at John, who shrugged and tried to smile. 

“She’ll warm up to you.” 

“Obviously,” said Sherlock. “But before or after she leaves for university?” 

He followed his daughter up the stairs. 

Emily met him at the door to her room, already holding out a pair of leggings. “Orange,” said Emily firmly. 

Sherlock wondered if she was color-blind. “Must we?” 

“Orange,” repeated Emily, and sat down, clearly ready to pull them on. 

“Knickers first,” said Sherlock, and stepped over her to go through the drawers. He found them quickly: polka-dots, rosey swirls, multi-colored butterflies, and even a pair with pink zebras. “Pink zebras?” he asked, and hoped that John wasn’t the one who purchased them. 

“No,” said Emily, and reached for the polka dots instead. 

“Thank God,” said Sherlock, watching as Emily sat down with a thump on the floor, and tried to put the knickers on the wrong way. “I was beginning to worry that you weren’t my daughter after all.” 

“Yucky zebras,” said Emily cheerfully, and caught her foot on the fabric. 

John was dozing on the sofa when they came back downstairs. “Daddy sleeping,” Emily whispered, as she crawled on top of him, and nestled her head under his chin. 

“Yes,” said John without opening his eyes. He wrapped his arm around her and grunted as she shifted against his chest. 

“Wake up,” ordered Emily. She wriggled out from under John’s arm and pulled on his hand. “Orange, Daddy.” 

John opened his eyes and to his credit, didn’t seem overly surprised by the color combination. “That’s very…bright.” 

“She chose it,” said Sherlock. 

“I can tell.” 

“Do you want to sleep?” 

“Not particularly,” said John, but closed his eyes anyway. 

“Come along, Emily,” said Sherlock, holding out his hand. 

“No,” said Emily, and tucked herself under John’s arm. John, half asleep, held her close, and Emily smiled pointedly at Sherlock, before snuggling in deeper. 

Sherlock was half tempted to either pull Emily by force away from John, or just to leave them be, since they were both clearly happy. He was still standing, trying to make up his mind, when there was a familiar knock at the door. 

“Yoo-hoo…” 

“Mrs Hudson,” said Sherlock, almost relieved at the interruption, and he went to join her in the hall. “John is sleeping.” 

“So early?” asked Mrs Hudson, surprised. 

“Yes.” Sherlock paused. “Emily too.” 

“Gran!” 

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed as Emily shoved through the door and into the hall, where she threw herself into Mrs Hudson’s arms with a kiss. 

“Emily, not so loud, you’ll wake your father,” Sherlock scolded her, and Emily ducked her head onto Mrs Hudson’s shoulder. 

Mrs Hudson’s gaze was sympathetic. “Come downstairs, the two of you. I have biscuits.” 

“Yay, biscuits!” said Emily happily, and scrambled down the stairs ahead of them. 

Sherlock sat at Mrs Hudson’s kitchen table, eyes closed, as he listened to Mrs Hudson and Emily talk in the sitting room. He could hear the shuffling as they pulled a box out from under the sofa, and the soft _tocks_ of wooden blocks being slotted together. A familiar _chick-chick-chick-chick_ , wheels turning, and Emily softly tooting – a train set. An old one, obviously, wooden and worn. Sherlock hadn’t remembered seeing trains upstairs, didn’t think John had played with trains since he was a boy. Mrs Hudson’s, then, or her husband’s, more likely. 

“There now,” said Mrs Hudson, quite close, and he heard the clink of a teacup and saucer being placed in front of him. “Drink up.” 

Sherlock opened his eyes. Mrs Hudson sat across from him, her own teacup in her hands. “Your wedding china.” 

“Silly to have fancy things and not use them for special occasions.” 

“Hardly a special occasion, Mrs Hudson.” Sherlock picked up the cup and breathed in the flavor of the steam: Earl Grey, with just enough sugar to suit. 

“And I have dead men drinking tea in my kitchen every day, of course,” said Mrs Hudson. Sherlock tried not to wince. 

“Go on,” said Sherlock, setting the cup back down. 

“With what?” 

“With whatever lecture you no doubt believe is due to me.” 

“I believe no such thing, Sherlock Holmes. Honestly. As if you would pay attention to the least little thing I would say.” Mrs Hudson set down the cup. “At any rate, you needn’t hear it from me. I’m sure John and Mycroft have given you earfuls.” 

“Mycroft,” said Sherlock shortly. “Not John. Not…not quite yet.” 

Mrs Hudson reached for one of the biscuits – chocolate on the bottom. Sherlock wished he could relax enough to eat one. He glanced out at Emily, and saw familiar smudges of chocolate around her lips. 

“What do you think of her?” asked Mrs Hudson. “Emily, I mean.” 

“She’s….” 

Emily’s back was to him as she pushed the train around the track, under the table and around one of the sofa legs. She fell forward onto her stomach, and giggled to herself, legs kicking in the air above her. Sherlock could see one of the chocolate biscuits, neatly placed in one of the cars, and Emily took a bite of it before replacing it. 

“She doesn’t like me.” 

“Oh, not this again.” 

“She prefers John.” Sherlock heard his voice crack, and instantly reached for a biscuit. The chocolate was already half melted, and smeared on his thumb when he took a bite. 

“You have to give her time, Sherlock,” soothed Mrs Hudson. “She’s never had two parents before. It’s always been just her and John.” 

“He gives in to her too easily.” 

“Not that I’ve seen, he’s quite strict usually. I suppose he has to be. There was never anyone else to share the load.” Mrs Hudson reached out for Sherlock’s hand. “He was so alone, for so long. He and Emily – they’re very close.” 

“I don’t want to come between them.” 

“You can’t,” said Mrs Hudson. “You won’t. But you mustn’t let them shut you out, either.” 

Sherlock’s back straightened. “They aren’t shutting me out.” 

Mrs Hudson didn’t say anything. She took another sip of her tea. 

“You all remain so convinced that Emily will like me.” 

“Of course, dear.” 

“I don’t understand why. Children have disliked parents before. Emily would hardly be the first to hate me.” 

“Defense mechanism, dear,” said Mrs Hudson, very matter-of-fact. “She’s a very clever child, and she’s going to spend the next sixteen years living with you. Liking you is simply easier than hating you.” 

Sherlock tore his gaze away from Emily; Mrs Hudson looked as though she were actually serious, until she smiled. 

“Go and play trains with her, Sherlock,” she said gently, and took the untouched cup of tea to the sink. “You can’t push her into loving you. It’s a little every day. Some days, it’ll be like you’ve made no progress at all. But if you’re there every day, and you’re _trying_ , every day…she’ll come round. She and John both.” 

Emily didn’t mind when Sherlock sat next to the tracks. She glanced up at him, and then concentrated on the trains again. 

After a moment, she sat up on her knees, and rooted around in the box. When she turned back, she was holding an engine and a boxcar. 

“Thank you,” said Sherlock, and Emily went back to her train without a word. Sherlock pushed the car around, careful to stay far enough behind. 

* 

It got better, gradually. 

“I have an experiment,” said Sherlock, and Emily wrinkled her nose. “It involves chemicals.” Emily pursed her lips. “I may require assistance.” 

“Smelly?” asked Emily. 

“Very much so.” 

“Okay,” said Emily, and followed him into the kitchen. 

The resulting explosion was quite small; really more of a flash-bang than a proper explosion, and the soot washed out of Emily’s hair and clothes very easily. John woke up, but Sherlock almost didn’t mind, because Emily laughed and laughed, and demanded a repeat. 

She still wanted John to give her the bath, however. Sherlock was tasked with cleaning the kitchen. He tossed the test tubes into the sink to soak (along with the dishes left over from the previous few meals) and went to order additional supplies on John’s laptop. 

“We need beans,” said John, coming back into the kitchen with Emily wrapped in a towel. “Em, go to your papa, you’re very heavy.” 

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, but Emily reached out for him, so he took her. She was damp, and her hair smelled like strawberries. “Milk too.” 

“I noticed. I rather thought you could take Emily.” 

Sherlock frowned. “They deliver.” 

“They charge a fee for that, and they’re just down the road.” 

Emily slithered down Sherlock’s frame, and went to pluck a book from her basket. She held it tightly to her chest for a moment, as if considering where to go – and then, to Sherlock’s infinite pleasure, brought it to him. 

“Ah,” he said, pleased. “Thank you, Emily.” Emily leaned against his knee, and Sherlock opened the book. “John, why is this hippopotamus wearing a hat?” 

“That’s what animals do in books, Sherlock.” 

“Utterly ridiculous for animals to wear clothes, John. The lack of opposable thumbs makes doing up buttons or zippers quite impossible.” 

“Back to the matter at hand,” said John as he collapsed on the armchair. “You need fresh air, and Emily should get out of this flat. A walk would do you both some good. Which brings me to the next question – why isn’t she in school this week?” 

Sherlock looked up from the ridiculous book. “School?” 

“Yes, school,” said John. “Where she goes every day and plays with her friends and reads books with her teachers and learns how to be a civilized member of society.” 

Sherlock waved his hand, dismissive. “Unnecessary. I can teach her what she needs to know. Such as the fact that animals do not wear clothing.” 

“She _likes_ school,” said John. 

“Boring,” said Sherlock. 

“Emily,” said John, and Emily looked up from the book. “School on Monday morning, yes? I’m sure Teacher Holly and Trevor and Devon all miss you.” 

“School!” cheered Emily, and wiggled delightedly against Sherlock’s knee, pressing the dampness from her skin into the fabric. 

John looked pointedly at Sherlock, who didn’t look back. Instead, he closed the book and set it carefully on the desk. 

“Emily, time for clothes. I think we need to take a walk.” 

“Walk!” chirped Emily, and followed him up the stairs to her room. 

Dried and dressed, bundled in coats and scarves and hats, Sherlock had absolutely every intention of taking Emily to Waitrose and back again. John might have favored Tesco’s, but Waitrose had a better selection of vegetables, and Sherlock had the idea from the way John had been eying the ever-increasing pile of empty bean tins that Emily’s diet had been lacking in that regard lately. 

“Emily, do you prefer broccoli or French beans?” 

“Yucky,” said Emily. 

“Squash or aubergine?” 

“Yucky,” said Emily. 

“Carrots or parsnips?” 

“Yucky!” insisted Emily, and she tugged on Sherlock’s sleeve and pointed. 

Sherlock looked to where Emily pointed. 

Ah. 

“Do you want to go in?” Sherlock asked her, and Emily nodded enthusiastically. “Better to do it now, Emily, the milk will go sour if we buy it before browsing. Come along, then.” 

Emily pulled Sherlock into the bookstore, and beans were promptly forgotten in lieu of books. 

* 

Mrs Hudson was in the flat when they returned, doing the washing up. John was in his armchair, dozing. 

“Ah, Mrs Hudson,” said Sherlock, as he dropped the bags with a heavy _thunk_ on the table. “We need beans.” 

“You were meant to buy beans,” said John from the sofa. Emily sat down in front of him, and began to unpack one of the bags, which was filled not with food, but with books. “You were meant to go to Tesco’s and buy _beans_.” 

“Nourishment for the body, John. Books are nourishment for the _mind_.” 

“All right then. You can explain to Emily when she’s hungry tonight why she has to read a book instead.” 

Emily stood up and handed John the bright blue book with the giraffe on the cover. “Daddy, read.” 

Sherlock ignored them both and continued unpacking the bags of books, most of which were thin, large, and brightly colored. Children’s books, the lot of them, save for the slim volume he’d secreted in his coat pocket. Best John not see that one. 

“Didn’t you buy any for yourself?” asked John. Sherlock kept his face neutral, and wondered if John had actually been reading up on deduction, or if it was a lucky guess. 

“Of course not, John,” said Sherlock, and hoped the impatience in his voice covered any lingering guilt over the lie. “I could hardly browse properly with Emily in tow. The selection of children’s books is really quite abysmal, nothing about chemistry or molecular biology, and a great deal of emphasis on animals wearing clothes.” 

“Read, Daddy,” repeated Emily, insistently shoving up against John. 

“How did you buy all of those?” asked John, as Sherlock began sorting through the books, examining them with a look of slight distaste. 

“Mycroft’s card, of course. He’s become quite lax in the last few years, I picked his pocket days ago and he hasn’t cancelled the card yet.” 

“He probably knows you have it, and is tracking what you’re purchasing.” 

“Then he can be suitably ashamed that he hasn’t spent the last three years publishing better scientific journals for Emily’s education.” 

“Oh, Sherlock,” scolded Mrs Hudson, returning from the kitchen. “She’s not even three, she’s hardly going to be peering through microscopes anytime soon.” 

“Not if she thinks elephants wear trousers,” said Sherlock disdainfully. 

Emily gave up on coaxing John into reading and carried the book to Mrs Hudson instead. “Gran, read!” 

Sherlock glanced at the book that Mrs Hudson dutifully opened. “Ah, yes. Rather preposterous, animals dancing in the jungle, but at least none of them are sporting hats. And the cricket plays a violin.” 

“She’s going to school on Monday,” said John firmly. 

Sherlock sat on his chair opposite John, who looked almost murderous. “She’s two. She shouldn’t have to attend school at all.” 

“She’s _two_ ,” said John carefully. “And she needed to go somewhere during the day while I worked. And school is good for her, she loves it, and they’ve been able to teach her far more than I ever was able on my own.” 

“I can teach her,” said Sherlock, and John sighed. “No, John, I _could_. She’s my daughter; she’s going to need a great deal more enrichment than prescheduled naps and play and storytimes could provide. They haven’t even taught her to count properly, John, and she certainly is incapable of _reading_ —” 

“Sherlock,” said John, trying to be patient, but Sherlock could see the exhaustion in his eyes all the same, “she’s _two_. The fact that she can count and can recognize her letters and colors with any degree of accuracy is already fairly remarkable.” 

“I could read when I was two.” 

“And while I don’t doubt that,” said John, “there’s also things that are equally important: friendships and social skills and learning to be around other children her age. You can’t give that to her, Sherlock. School can.” 

Sherlock leaned back and closed his eyes. “No,” he said evenly. “I’m not quite the man to teach her how to be pleasant and to play fair, am I?” 

“I don’t mean it like that,” said John. “It’s just…she’s clever, Sherlock. She’s enormously clever. She’s going to be as much of a genius as you are, one day. But she’s me, too, and you might be happy with just me, but Emily, she needs more. She needs friends, _plural_.” 

Sherlock opened his eyes. “You’re wrong, you know.” 

“You don’t know Emily yet,” said John. 

“About me,” said Sherlock. “And about her, I suppose. I don’t need just _you_ anymore. And she…does.” 

“Sherlock…” 

Sherlock stood and rested his hand on John’s shoulder. “I can go back out for the beans.” 

He was about to move away when John’s hand caught his wrist. “Wait…” Sherlock looked down at John. “Order them online. It’s all right.” 

“There’s a delivery fee,” said Sherlock. 

“Hang the fee,” said John. 

* 

Emily returned to school two days later. Sherlock, in some ways, was relieved. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy Emily, to an extent – he did. He found her both endlessly fascinating and tantalizingly impossible to predict, and when she reacted to things in completely illogical ways, he was both intrigued and alarmed. 

But it was the other emotion that caught him by surprise, the same as it did every morning, when he would turn and see evidence of Emily in the flat, where none had been before. That morning, Emily had shyly offered Elfin to Sherlock. He took it, gravely, something in him understanding the immense importance of the act, and studied the flopsy elephant, turning it carefully over in his hands. 

“He is a good elephant,” said Sherlock, and handed it back to Emily, who hugged the toy tightly, before marching back to John’s sofa, a pleased and self-satisfied expression on her small face. 

He felt it now, watching Emily off to school with Mrs Hudson pushing the pushchair. The strange tug on his heart, wanting to follow, to snatch her back and lock the doors to the flat. She didn’t love him, didn’t need him, didn’t look for him first. Not yet. Maybe not ever, really – but she looked for him second, after John. She didn’t mind when he helped her dress, and she even seemed to like his company from time to time. 

“Have a good day at school, Emily,” Sherlock said to her before Mrs Hudson pushed her out the door. “I’ll be waiting when you come home.” 

And where once she might have said “no”, instead, Emily said, “Okay.” 

That was good enough for now.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Catalan translations are courtesy of Google, which is why I’ve provided the English as well. Corrections gratefully accepted (and anticipated, come to that).

Emily fell asleep during tea; John glared at Harry and resisted the urge to kick her ankle, absolutely convinced he’d seen her slip something into his daughter’s milk. Melatonin, most likely, which wasn’t exactly healthy for a small child to ingest, but was unlikely to cause lasting damage. John carried the little girl up to her bedroom and laid her on the bed while her eyes fluttered. 

“Sleepy,” said Emily, and John leaned forward and kissed her forehead. 

“I know. You’ll feel better after a nap.” 

“And we’ll play.” 

John bit his lip, and thought of something. 

“Hey. I bet Uncle Mycroft will be here in the morning, what do you think?” 

“Yay,” said Emily in a sleepy cheer, and John kissed her forehead again, pressed his nose to her soft black curls, and breathed in her scent. 

“Tell him you want a tea party,” said John. “Don’t let up until he does.” 

“Okay,” said Emily. 

“Love you,” he whispered into Emily’s hair, and Emily murmured something that could have been “love you too”, but it was hard to tell. 

John crossed the room to the little table, set up for a continuous tea party attended by various stuffed animals. Emily wasn’t one for tea parties generally, but Aurora adored them, and Emily was a very good sport. John found a bit of paper and a pencil, wrote the note quickly, folded it in half, and wrote “MYCROFT” in large letters before sliding it in the teapot’s spout. 

With this task done, John gave Emily a last look – fast asleep, of course – and headed back downstairs, where Harry waited in the foyer. 

“There you are – is she asleep?” asked Harry. Her eyes were bright with unasked questions. _Ready for the plan?_

“Yes,” said John. _What the hell did you put in her milk, Harry?_ “Heading out?” 

“Think so,” said Harry casually. “Long drive and all that.” 

John didn’t have a clue if Harry was sending him a signal or not – maybe she was acting for the recording devices. Would Mycroft spy on his own mother’s house? Probably, thought John. If there was something worth recording. 

John leaned in and gave Harry a kiss on the cheek. “Drive safely.” 

“Will do. See you next time,” said Harry, and gave his arm a squeeze, and she pulled him out the front door. 

“Harry,” said John evenly, once they were clear of the house. “What did you give my daughter in there?” 

“Oh, honestly,” said Harry. “She’ll be fine and she won’t wake until morning. Nod your head for the cameras, Johnny, and whatever you do, don’t be stupid.” 

“You are much too good at this,” said John cautiously. 

“Makes up for your inability to lie effectively,” said Harry smoothly. “Nod, John.” 

John nodded. 

“Right then,” said Harry. She got into her car and started the engine. John leaned down, as if to speak to her, and Harry rolled down the window. “John—” 

“I still don’t know why you’re doing this,” John began. “I…I thought you hated him. Sherlock.” 

Harry’s hands were still on the steering wheel. “I do, sometimes,” she admitted. “But I love you.” She glanced at John. “Don’t tell anyone.” 

“Our secret,” promised John. 

Harry nodded, and shifted the car. “Be safe, idiot. I’m too old to take up motherhood now.” 

“Get on with you,” said John, and stepped back to let Harry drive away. 

* 

Aurora seemed distracted when John returned to the sitting room. She kept picking up the tea cups, and setting them back down again as if she wasn’t entirely sure whether she should drink what remained, or leave it for the maid to clear away. 

“Aurora, I’m going on a walk.” 

“All right, dear,” said Aurora, only half listening, and then she perked up. “Did you want company?” 

“No, that’s all right.” John watched as she picked up another cup. “Everything all right?” 

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Aurora, and sat down with a sigh. “Your _sister_.” 

John grinned. “Sorry. She’s like that with everyone.” 

Aurora shook her head, and it seemed to clear the distraction for a moment. John found himself needing to hold steady under a suddenly piercing gaze. 

“John Hamish Watson.” 

John blinked back at her, hoping he looked innocent enough, considering how innocent he wasn’t. 

“You’ll take care on your walk,” said Aurora firmly. “I don’t want you returning to this house injured or having endangered your health.” 

John opened his mouth to answer, but wasn’t entirely sure what to say. 

“And take a few sandwiches from the kitchen,” continued Aurora. 

“Aurora,” said John slowly. “We just had tea.” 

“Then there will be plenty to share, won’t there? You’ll find the thermoses in the right-hand cupboard on the other side of the fridge, dear.” 

John looked harder at his mother-in-law. But Aurora was, as always, unreadable, aloof, poised, and completely impenetrable. John had no idea if she really thought John might want a snack for a quick walk in the woods, or was sending him away with a meal for later in what would undoubtedly be a longer journey. 

“Thanks,” said John finally, because he honestly couldn’t think of any other answer that wouldn’t show his hand, assuming Aurora hadn’t already managed to deduce his intentions. 

Aurora waved her hand at him: _of course_. 

Half an hour later, John was on the path leading to the road, a knapsack slung over one shoulder carrying a change of clothes, four sandwiches, and a thermos of sweetened tea. The sun was just setting through the trees, and John was already feeling peckish – no first-trimester nausea for _him_ – when he saw the lights on the road. He picked up the pace; the day had been cold, and night was falling. John’s face was damp with mist, and he didn’t think it would be long before it turned to a light rain. It wasn’t until he was nearly at the road itself that he saw the car sitting in the bushes, and he went to it without hesitation, just as the rain began to fall. 

“Greg,” he greeted the driver. 

“John,” replied Greg Lestrade as John climbed into the passenger seat. “Lovely night for a walk.” 

“Isn’t it just?” John buckled up and opened the knapsack. “I’m starving, do you want a sandwich?” 

“Ta,” said Lestrade, and crammed half of one into his mouth. 

“Been waiting long?” 

Lestrade shrugged. “Five, ten minutes. So – where to, guv?” 

“Heathrow. And don’t ask where after that, Mycroft might try to torture it out of you.” 

“Bloody Mycroft,” said Lestrade, and started the car. 

“Chancy thing, driving your own car.” 

“Well,” said Lestrade. “We don’t think Mycroft has it tracked. _Yet_.” 

They drove in companionable silence for a while, while John ate the sandwiches and drank the tea. The rain turned into a steady deluge; the sound of the wipers working back and forth, the drumbeat of drops on the roof of Greg’s car all providing a comforting background noise that let John’s mind wander. It didn’t wander very far; he went over the plan continuously in his mind. Heathrow, board the plane, land in Spain, and then… 

John wasn’t entirely sure. Sherlock was in Spain. Nola Moriarty must have been in Spain. For a moment, John felt entirely frustrated, exactly as he did when Sherlock was twenty steps ahead leaving no discernible track, and John was forced to leap from Point A to Point Zed without any indication of how to find the points in between. 

Next to him, Greg coughed. It was the sort of cough meant to initiate conversation, and John opened his eyes and shifted, the sort of shift that meant he was open to it. 

“Heathrow,” said Greg. “I can’t decide if this is Shakespeare or Homer.” 

“Journeys end in lovers meeting, or the Odyssey, you mean?” 

“Exactly.” 

“If I meet any soothsayers, I’ll let you know.” 

“Football,” said Greg. 

“Arsenal and the Hammers,” remembered John, and reached to switch on the radio. Within moments, the familiar sounds of the football broadcast filled the car. 

Greg chuckled. “Christ, I remember after Em was born – you didn’t even know there were games being played, let alone who played them.” 

“I was busy,” protested John. “And there’s not been much to do lately.” 

“’Spose not.” Greg drove for a little before speaking again. “That was a good day.” 

“Anna came over and cooked me dinners for a week,” remembered John, smiling. 

“Do you remember her lasagna?” 

John groaned appreciatively. “Lemon cake. I always liked her lemon cake.” 

“Roast chicken, with the onion and the ginger.” 

“Black pudding.” 

“That…thing she did with the trout.” Greg made a sort of odd motion with his hands, briefly off the wheel of the car. “With the paper. I never understood the point of the paper, but…” He shook his head, and fell silent. 

John didn’t say anything for a moment; no doubt Greg was remembering Anna, and John let himself remember her too – the easy way she’d come in and take over his kitchen, his daughter, laughing and relinquishing it all once she was done, without a spark of resentment or jealousy. As though John had been giving _her_ the gift, instead of the other way around. 

John didn’t like to think about her at the end, in the last weeks before she died. Not the pale woman who held his hand with hot, paper-thin fingers, and smiled only when Emily drew near. 

“She asked me to watch over you,” said John, not entirely sure why he was saying it at all. “Done a crap job of it, haven’t I?” 

Greg didn’t say anything. Someone in the game scored; John wasn’t sure who, but the crowd and the announcers sounded appreciative. It all blended together with the rain. 

“Other things on your mind, mate,” said Greg finally. 

_He’s in love with you_ , Sherlock’s voice reminded John. 

No, John had said, but watching Greg in the car now, he wasn’t so sure. If Greg were in love with John, why would he drive him to the airport so he could chase after Sherlock? 

John pulled the letter from his pocket, unfolded it and read it again. 

_Where the land juts out bravely into the sea…_

Harry’s phone was in his pocket; it only took a few moments to call up a map of Spain, and John thumbed through the coastline, his eyes roaming over the cities, the thin colors of green and grey and blue. And then, just north of Barcelona, he saw it, and remembered. 

_Tell me about the roses._

_What roses, Emily?_

_I don’t know, tell me!_

_Why the sudden fascination with roses, Em?_

And Emily would giggle and clap her hands over her mouth. John wasn’t sure where the fascination with roses came from: there weren’t rose bushes on the estate, and it was still the middle of winter. He looked online and found children’s books about roses, the fairy tales of Rose Red and Snow White, and read them to Emily every night before bed. And every night, when he told it, Emily asked the same thing: 

_Does Papa know this story?_

_I’m sure he does._

Roses and Sherlock, when roses were something John had never associated Sherlock with, but for some reason they were inexplicably twined together in Emily’s mind. 

And now, looking at the eastern shores of Spain on the Mediterranean – a town called Roses, on a bit of land jutting out into the sea. 

“Do you believe in coincidences?” John asked. The game on the radio let out another cheer. 

“Depends on the coincidence,” said Greg. “Did you just get a text telling you exactly where to find Sherlock?” 

“It’s more of a hunch than anything else,” said John. 

“Sherlock wouldn’t call it a hunch, he’d call it deductive reasoning.” 

“Do you think there was ever a point in his life where he wasn’t sure about anything?” 

“No,” said Greg, and turned off the motorway toward the airport. “That tosser was born knowing everything there is to know in the world.” 

John snorted, and folded the letter up and put it back in his pocket. “Who’s winning?” 

“Hell if I know,” said Greg. “Do I get to know a terminal, or shall I just kick you out at a convenient spot?” 

“Five.” 

The terminal was busy and loud, and the drop-off point was strangely warm and breezy. John watched the dozens of people moving and talking, going about their lives with goodbyes and hellos, and for a sharp moment, didn’t want to leave the safety of Greg’s car. 

“Shite,” he said. “Six weeks of being holed up on a country estate, and suddenly I’m hit with agoraphobia.” 

“Get over it quick,” advised Greg. 

“Yeah.” John gripped the strap on his knapsack, and reached for the door handle. 

“Hey,” said Greg, and John looked back at him. “You and me…” 

John waited. 

“We would have been crap together,” said Greg. “I mean. You root for _Liverpool_.” 

_He’s in love with you_ , Sherlock reminded John, and John didn’t laugh. 

“Anna never did understand the football,” said John, and Greg laughed, breaking the odd spell in the car. 

“Yeah, well,” said Greg. He broke eye contact with John. “Wouldn’t have gone anywhere.” 

“Would have killed each other before the first season was over,” agreed John. 

“Marrying outside the faith is fraught with problems.” 

“Think of the children, living in that kind of environment,” said John solemnly, and they both dissolved into giggles. 

“Christ, mate,” said Greg, and looked over at John again. The smile was just a shadow on his face now, replaced with something far more serious. “I love Em like she’s my own. Have since the day I met her, and it’s got nothing to do with you. If things were different – I’d have been proud to call her my daughter, adopted or otherwise. But she’s got you and she’s got Sherlock, and I know she doesn’t need me.” 

“She’ll always need you. You’re just as important to her as the rest of us. More so – you were there when Sherlock couldn’t be.” 

Greg breathed in deep, and before he could say anything to break the sudden odd feeling of emotional disclosure – because honestly, they were _British_ , they were men, they did not _do_ this sort of thing – John added, “You’re important to me, too, mate.” 

Greg was still for a moment. 

“Even if we’d have been rubbish in the sack,” added John, and with that, the moment was gone. Just as well. 

“Speak for yourself,” said Greg. “Get the fock out.” 

“Ta,” said John, and went. 

* 

John had always pictured Spain as hot, with everyone wearing thin shirts and bare shoulders, sunglasses and wide-brimmed hats. 

He hadn’t expected rain. Even if the air was warmer than it had been in England, it was still just as wet, and all John had to wear was his leather coat and no hat or umbrella. 

By the time John found himself in the little hired car and on the road toward Roses, he was soaked. He changed into his spare clothes, which were luckily still dry, and laid out his coat on the seat next to him. Hopefully the rest of his clothes would dry by morning. 

It was a two-hour drive north along the coast before he reached his destination, and by then the rain had finally let up, leaving a crystal-clear sky of stars above him. John stepped out of the car near the tiny little guest house he’d managed to find on Harry’s phone while waiting for his flight at Heathrow, and stared up at the sky. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen so many stars – Afghanistan, maybe. That seemed like a lifetime ago. 

“Hola, puc ajudar-lo?” 

John turned toward the voice; an older man, with what had to be the most fantastic moustache John had ever seen in his life, leaned outside the door of the guesthouse, looking somewhat stern. He could have been a caricature of the beleaguered but good-humored Spanish innkeeper, the sort who always knew exactly what his guests required and was perfectly capable of supplying it in spades. 

“Hola,” said John. “Ah…I’m John Watson?” 

“Juan Watson,” said the man, nodding, and he waved his arm to motion John to come in. John grabbed the knapsack from the car and followed him in. Within moments he was shown to a room, a tiny garret under a stairway, with barely enough space for the twin-bed, the washbasin, and a chair. There was a round window looking outside – completely useless for anything, John thought, since there wasn’t a way to open it – and only a bare hook on the wall for clothes. The bright patchwork coverlet on the bed cheered the room up, but then, it was a small room, so there wasn’t much cheer required. 

“L'esmorzar és a les vuit. No arribar tard o no a menjar. Hi ha un bany pel passadís. Dormir bé i ignorar l'aranya a la cantonada, que és perfectament còmode amb els clients.” 

(Breakfast is at 8. Don't be late or you won’t eat. There is a bathroom down the hall. Sleep well and ignore the spider in the corner, she is perfectly comfortable with guests.) 

And with that, the innkeeper closed the door. John sat on the bed and listened to the man’s footsteps fade down the hall. 

He was alone. 

John had been alone before, even within the last three years since Emily’s birth. Afternoons where Sherlock and Emily went to museums, giving him a bit of time by himself, which he had been craving for months but never quite knew what to do with once received. Mornings at the clinic between patients, when he’d close his eyes and try to catch a few winks of sleep. For a short time, in simpler days, train rides to Buckley, to shoot with Sebastian Moran. 

The hours when Emily napped, when she was tiny, and the early days when he still mourned, he’d sit in Sherlock’s chair and feel her move under his skin. 

Sitting in the miniscule room in Spain, however, was more alone than John had felt in years. For the first time, no one physically near him knew who he was. No one emotionally close to him knew _where_ he was. 

He pulled Sherlock’s letter from his pocket, and held it in his hands for a moment. There was every chance that he was on the wrong track, that Sherlock wasn’t in Roses, that he wasn’t even in Spain. It didn’t make sense for Sherlock to be in Spain. 

John slid the letter back into his pocket, and undressed to his boxers. He stretched out on the bed, and folded his hands over his stomach to sleep. 

Morning. The rest would wait until morning. 

* 

The room was expansive, so much so that John couldn’t see the walls. He started walking along the hard-wood floors, heard his footsteps echo, but despite walking for miles, nothing changed. He was forever in the center of the light, shadows all around, and alone. 

“What are you looking for?” asked Sherlock, behind him. 

“No idea,” said John, still walking. Sherlock was just behind him, could have walked beside him if he picked up the pace by a step or two, or if John slowed down. 

“Do you think you’ll find it?” 

“Hope so.” 

“Why?” asked Sherlock, and he sounded genuinely curious. 

“I miss you,” said John, and turned around, and woke up. 

Light streamed into the little room through the circular window. John stared at the steps above him, which was just disorientating enough that he felt somewhat nauseous. It took a moment of even breaths and concentrated effort before he was able to calm his stomach and sit up without fear of retching. 

“You might have missed the memo,” John told the baby, “but I don’t get morning sickness. So stop it.” 

John pulled on his clothes and opened the door to the hall; he could just hear signs of life coming from downstairs. There’d be a loo somewhere along the way, as well, thought John, and he went to investigate. 

Twenty minutes later, having showered and shaved and more or less prepared himself to look as friendly and congenial as possible, John headed downstairs, an English-Catalan phrasebook in his pocket. He followed the noises to the breakfast room, and there found the mustachioed innkeeper from the previous night, as well as two other people. 

“Er, hola,” said John, and the innkeeper raised his arms wide. 

“Bon dia, bon dia! Dormia tan tard, pensàvem que eren morts. Haver perdut primer esmorzar, però pot fer una truita d'ous si tens gana, o pa amb tomàquet. I vostè es anglès, voleu que te? Els I tenen instal•lacions per preparar te.” 

(Good morning, good morning! You slept so late, we thought you were dead. You have missed first breakfast, but I can make you an omelet if you are hungry, or some bread with tomato. And you are English, do you want tea? I have tea.) 

“Ah. Tay. Tea. Tea, yes,” said John, practically leaping on the single word he had understood. “Ah…sugar?” 

One of the women at the table groaned and reached over to smack the innkeeper on the arm with her newspaper. “El meu Déu, idiota, ell no parla catalana, que és l'anglès!” She turned to John. “Please excuse him. He is idiot. He will get you tea.” 

(My god, you idiot, he doesn't speak Catalan, he's English!) 

“Idiota! Qui és l'idiota? Ell és l'anglès, per descomptat ell vol que te, què més voleu anglesos?” shouted the innkeeper in response, and John watched as the two of them bickered back and forth in Catalan, arms waving in the air, while the innkeeper fussed with a kettle and a mug. Within a minute, John had the mug thrust into his hands, and he sat down, already winded, to watch as the two Catalonians continued to argue. 

(Idiot! Who's the idiot? He's English, of course he wants tea, what else do Englishmen want?) 

The second woman leaned over to John. “They will argue about you the rest of the day.” 

“Oh,” said John. “Ah…sorry.” 

“Oh no, they enjoy,” said the woman. She was much younger than the other two, and rather pretty. Her English wasn’t half horrible, either. 

A crash from the arguing Catalonians, who had moved their frenzied discussion into the kitchen. John craned his head to follow their progress. 

“I don’t suppose I could get a bit of toast?” 

The woman stood and shouted toward the kitchen, “Francesc, el vostre convidat és fam! Deixar que manifesten amor a la meva germana i fer-li alguna cosa per menjar.” 

(Francesc, your guest is hungry! Stop professing love to my sister and make him something to eat.) 

A shriek from the older woman, followed by a “Si, Marisa!” from the innkeeper. The woman – Marisa, John gathered – sat back down and smiled at John. 

“Why do you visit Roses?” 

“I’m looking for someone,” said John, thinking it could not possibly be this easy. “Another Englishman, he would have come through sometime in the last six weeks. Tall, dark curly hair, alpha, absolute berk who can tell your life story by your fingernails.” 

Marisa almost looked disappointed as she shook her head. “No. I have not seen him. Ana, has vist un anglès en el darrer mes?” 

(Ana, have you seen an Englishman in the last month?) 

“No,” called back Ana. 

“Shite,” said John under his breath. 

“I am sorry,” said Marisa, and she did sound apologetic. “A lover?” 

“My bondmate. It was just a hunch that he came here – stupid.” 

“Perhaps he did. Ana is not observant, or she would have already seen Francesc is in love with her,” said Marisa. 

“Gossa!” shouted Ana from the kitchen. Marisa blushed pink, and John didn’t wonder too hard what it meant. 

“We shall ask,” said Marisa. “What is his name?” 

“Sherlock Holmes,” said John. “Oh, there’s another name, though. Not him. He was looking for someone, too, a woman. Irish. Nola Moriarty.” 

The plate dropped on the table in front of John. “Irlandès?” asked Francesc. “Jo pensava que era anglès. És ell aquí sobre els jardins?” 

(Irish? I thought he was English. Is he here about the gardens?) 

“Ell és l'anglès. La dona que busca el seu marit és irlandès, i va pensar que podria ser aquí.” 

(He is English. The woman his bondmate looks for is Irish, and he thought they might be here.) 

“Llavors és sobre els jardins.” 

(Then it is about the gardens.) 

“No es tracta de jardins —” 

(It’s not about the gardens—) 

“Ha de portar-lo als jardins avui i mostrar-lo. Potser ell hi arreglarà cap amunt una altra vegada.” 

(You should take him to the gardens today and show him. Perhaps he will fix them up again.) 

“Francesc, no li importa sobre els jardins —” 

(Francesc, he doesn’t care about the gardens—) 

John nearly had to shout to be heard. “What gardens?” 

Marisa, flushed, turned back to him. “There was an Irish woman who lived here, long ago, before I was born. At the top of the hill in the gardens. There was a fire, everything was destroyed, and she went back to Ireland.” 

John’s heart thumped, and he leaned toward Francesc. “Nola Moriarty?” 

Francesc shrugged. “Jo era un nen, quan ella va sortir. No recordo el seu nom.” 

(I was a boy when she left. I don’t remember her name.) 

“What kind of gardens?” 

Marisa looked surprised. “Don’t you know where you are? She grew roses.” 

* 

Francesc told the story, and Marisa translated. It was slow going, and John half listened to the lyrical Catalan from Francesc, the way his voice rose and fell with passion, as he both stood and sat in turns, his arms waving for emphasis. It was a performance, not a story, and Marisa’s translation washed over it all. John almost wanted to tell her to stop, to see if he could figure out the words on his own. 

“The gardens have been there for generations, several centuries of the Bordas family growing roses on the hill overlooking the sea. Longer than the town has been here, longer than Spain, longer than Catalan has been part of it. They say the Moors brought the rose with them, that a Moorish king had them planted here because his omega fell in love with the spot, and died here. They’re a way of commemorating her beauty. That’s the story. But the Moors never came this far north, so it is unlikely to be true. 

“But it is true that the only Bordas who inherit the rose garden are alphas. 

“Mario Bordas had grown up in Roses, and he was very clever. He found ways of making the roses bloom larger, more colorful, more fragrant. He shared his roses freely, but never disclosed how it was done. He was so sure that no one would be able to discern his secrets, and he was correct; no one ever did. When he died, his roses died with him. But this is getting ahead of the story; you want to hear about the Irishwoman. 

“I remember the day she arrived. I was young, and good-looking, and she was young and blonde and spoke not a word of Catalan, only a bit of Spanish, and I followed her thinking I might be able to steal a kiss. But she saw Mario on the street, and he saw her, and they followed each other up the hill and there was no hope for me. She rarely came down from the hill, and when she did, her Catalan had improved, and her hair was blonder, and she let it down her back free. And she smelled of roses. I think Mario told her his secrets. 

“But we all knew – they had not bonded. Of course not, they did not love each other. It was obvious, even to me, that there was nothing between them. She did not love Mario – she loved only the roses. Mario did not love her. None of us understood why he kept her, why he suffered her in his gardens, but he did, and even when it was obvious that he taught her the secrets of his roses, he did not love her, did not talk to her. She craved it, I think. When she came down to the town, and I followed her like a love-sick puppy, she basked in my attentions, and laughed at me, and I could tell that even though she would never reciprocate my adoration, she enjoyed it, and sought me out when I did not appear immediately. 

“She was lovely. And then she had a baby.” 

“How?” interrupted John. 

Francesc shrugged. “In the usual way.” 

“Was it—” John hesitated, and Francesc roared with laughter. 

“I told you, I was a boy! No. It was Mario’s son, of course. One look at the boy, and none of us doubted for one moment that Diego was a Bordas. But they did not love each other. Of course you can, without love, and for anyone else, it would have been a scandal, but Mario and Nola did not seem to care for the scandal, and they went on as they always did. 

“I still loved her. But she turned her attentions away from me, and to her child. Which is correct, but she never sought me out any more. She loved only two things: roses, and Diego. And then the fire.” 

“What happened?” 

“There was never an inquest, though there should have been. I was young; I was in my first frenzy. By the time I came out for air, it was all over, so I do not know why there was no inquest. The fire destroyed the gardens and the house, and Mario and Diego died. Nola was not in the house. She watched it burn, and them with it. And four days later, she left for Ireland, and never returned.” 

* 

Despite the rain of the previous day, the sun shone brightly through dramatic clouds, and John could tell that it was going to be hot by afternoon. Marisa had been perfectly happy to let John drive up the hill to the rose gardens, as she tried to give him directions in a mix of English, Catalan, and wild hand gestures. The hand gestures were the most helpful; the little car lacked air conditioning, and they’d opened all the windows. The resulting cloud of dust and noise made talking difficult. 

The rose gardens were deserted; as far as John could tell, no one had been there in weeks, if not months. The entire property was ringed with a fence and a sign on the gate that surely threatened trespassers with the fullest extent of the law, but the sign itself hung by a corner and it was clear that Marisa didn’t give it a second thought. She seemed so comfortable ignoring the sign, and so confident about where they were going, it was clear she’d been many times before. Once they’d parked the car, and John stepped out to view the property, it occurred to him exactly how remote they were – of course Marisa would have come here. It was the perfect place for teenagers to come, drunk on love and hormones and wine, to lose their respective virginities in the ruins of a rose garden. 

For a little while, John didn’t speak; he just walked through the gardens themselves, while Marisa poked around as if looking for familiar markers. Rows of bushes surrounded the dilapidated building at the crest of the hill, knarled and ugly yet still showing signs of life. Many of them had leaves and a few sported small buds. John thought the air should have been filled with the scent of roses; instead, it was dry and dusty, although he thought he could taste roses at the back of his throat. 

“I didn’t think roses were so hardy,” said John, his hand hovering over one of the tiny rosebuds. 

“These are not your ordinary roses,” said Marisa. “They are…super rose? The Bordases grow roses for generations. They knew things about how to grow a sturdy rose.” 

John frowned, and touched the rose with a finger. “Genetic manipulation?” 

Marisa shrugged, clearly not quite understanding the phrase, and John let it go. He stared at the ruins of the house, and thought about Nola standing amongst her rose bushes, watching it burn down with her mate and child inside. 

Exactly the way Sherlock had nearly done the same thing. 

John had almost begun to feel sorry for Nola Moriarty – he supposed she might have considered it poetic justice, to force Sherlock to go through the same terror and heartbreak she must have felt, watching her life burn to ash. But having narrowly escaped _being_ that poetic ash, John wasn’t sure he wanted to spare the sympathy. 

“Does the Irishwoman own all this?” he asked, standing to look at what remained of the house. 

Marisa snorted. “No. A cousin in Seville, who has never visited and does nothing more than pay the taxes. He’s let the entire place fall to ruin. The Irishwoman, my mother always said she was…how you say, snobbish? She never greeted anyone or spoke a kind word when silence was an option. But at least she loved the roses. If she owned the gardens, they would still grow.” 

John continued to look at the house, and his heart felt heavier and heavier. It was too easy to think of the flames licking at the sky, the people inside, and Sherlock outside, watching it burn… 

No, not Sherlock. Nola. 

John turned away. Marisa stood just behind him, looking at him curiously. 

“Do you know her?” 

“I met her once,” said John. “I don’t know her at all.” 

“And yet your mate is looking for her.” 

“An old score to settle. I think I’m done here,” said John, and walked past Marisa to the car. 

“She would have cared for the roses,” said Marisa behind him – less to John, he thought, than to herself, and he heard the longing in her voice. 

They drove back to the village in silence. Only after they arrived at the guest house did Marisa turn to John again. 

“What do you seek?” 

The question startled John. “My mate. Sherlock.” 

“No,” said Marisa, and she shook her head. “You look for Sherlock. But you are seeking something else, or you would not have gone with me up to the gardens, and you would not have looked at the ruins of the house for so long.” 

John closed his eyes, the image of the rose bushes, burnt to stubs, still in the back of his mind. 

“You recognized it,” said Marisa, continuing to press him. 

“I was in a burning house,” said John, and his eyes opened. “With my daughter. And Sherlock was on the outside, looking in.” 

Marisa said nothing; her face was impassive. 

“I sent him away afterwards,” said John, and he turned and walked quickly toward the guest house. 

Marisa called out. “Because he did not save you.” 

John stopped on the pavement. “Because he did.” John turned; Marisa had not moved from the car. He couldn’t read her expression, she was too far away now. “I’m not looking to forgive him. He didn’t do anything I need to forgive. I don’t…I don’t know what I want.” 

“You won’t find it until you do,” said Marisa. 

“Maybe that’s what I’m trying to find. I’m trying to figure out why the hell I’m here anyway.” 

Marisa shrugged a shoulder, and smiled. “Perhaps. You said you sent him away. Perhaps you are trying to find a way to let him back in.” 

John scoffed, and Marisa let out a soft sigh. 

“Ah,” she said, low. “You are not sure you _want_ to let him back into your life.” 

John felt his stomach turn, just a bit – the first twinges of what he imagined might be nausea. He placed his hand on his stomach automatically, and closed his eyes, turning inward, examining just a bit closer… 

The bond held tightly, a steady thrum of connection, though Sherlock was a thousand miles away. John half imagined he could feel Sherlock breathing through it, waiting for John to answer, to acknowledge Marisa’s theory. 

“I do,” said John, and opened his eyes again. “Why would I look for him, if I didn’t want him back?” 

“It’s your journey, not mine,” said Marisa. “Where will you go next?” 

“Ireland,” said John, without thinking. “If that’s where she went, it’s where Sherlock would have gone.” 

Marisa smiled. “Then I wish you a pleasant journey. And I hope you find what you seek.” 

It was dark, when John left Roses, and the stars shone brightly over the sea. He kept the windows open as he drove, and listened to the waves hit the shore, and imagined he could smell the scent of ashes and roses on the air.


	4. Chapter 4

The day had not started auspiciously. 

Or rather, it _had_ , with Sherlock waking to find John still in bed. John had always been an early riser; he told Sherlock it had been worse after Emily was born, because it was in the hour or so before Emily woke in the morning that John was able to prepare for the day, to shower and dress and put together lunches without a toddler clinging to his leg. 

After the accident – and for John, that was how life seemed to be delineated, either _before_ or _after_ the accident, meaning his own accident and Sherlock’s subsequent return – John still woke early, though he didn’t shower or dress. He still made Emily’s lunches, but the rest waited until later in the morning, when he could take his time with them, move as slowly as he needed without worrying that he held anyone up. 

Sherlock had offered to do it before. “I can,” he told John, and John had smiled, not realizing how patronizing it was, and said, “I know, but it’s easier if I do it myself.” 

This particular day, however, Sherlock woke and John was still in the bed. He smiled to himself, and rolled over, to press himself against John’s back, wrap a careful arm around John’s stomach. John wasn’t asleep, but he wasn’t entirely awake, and Sherlock felt John press back against him; willing, in his dozy state, to be held. 

Sherlock held his breath, and let the warmth from John’s skin – 37 degrees, bit warm but not feverish, breathing even and steady, limbs relaxed – seep into his own. Sherlock pressed his nose against the skin on John’s neck, the old bondbite barely visible where John’s neck turned into shoulder. Sherlock nosed the bite and breathed against it. 

“Morning,” said John, his voice rough with sleep. 

“Yes,” said Sherlock, and John chuckled. 

“Big day today.” 

“Is it now?” 

John twisted under Sherlock’s arm until he was on his back, and Sherlock took advantage of John’s change in position to nuzzle his jawline, rough with stubble. 

“You haven’t shaved in a week,” said Sherlock against John’s throat, and he felt John shudder beneath him. 

“Wanted to make sure I could today, you know it’s slow to grow in enough to make a proper job of it,” said John, trying to sound light and failing miserably. His breath caught. “Sherlock.” 

Sherlock reached up and caught John’s mouth in a kiss. John pushed up into him, responding with warmth and fervor, and a soft sound in the back of his throat. Sherlock heard the sound – too much like a moan, too much like John was in pain, and pulled up, his weight on his arms. He opened his eyes and stared down at John, his heart pounding with worry and lust in equal amounts. 

John looked back up at him, pupils wide but not quite blown. His lips were already a darker shade of red from the intensity of Sherlock’s kisses. 

“Sherlock, I’m fine.” 

“You’re sure?” 

“Yes,” said John firmly, and reached up to pull Sherlock down again. 

No sooner had Sherlock’s lips touched John’s, however, the creaking of the door stopped them both in their tracks. 

“Daddy?” 

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed. He shifted off John and landed, face-down, on the mattress beside him. Emily, in the doorway, awake. 

“Emily,” said John, and Sherlock felt the mattress tip as Emily climbed up on it, and John shifted to make room for her. Sherlock tried to think about anything horrible to ease the pressure in his groin. Mycroft. Mycroft taking a bath. Mycroft taking a bath with Mrs Hudson. _Egad._

“Daddy take me to school today?” demanded Emily. 

“Daddy, will you take me to school today?” said Sherlock into the mattress. 

“Not today, poppet,” said John. “You should ask Papa.” 

“Only if she says it correctly.” 

“No,” said Emily, and pressed her foot into his stomach. 

Sherlock turned his head and saw his daughter snuggled comfortably in John’s lap, his arms around her protectively. “You’re being deliberately contrary, Emily.” 

Emily blew a raspberry at him, clearly not phased by the insult. Then she turned to John, and pressed her face against his bare chest. She wrapped her arms around him tightly and hugged him close, and Sherlock half thought he understood why. 

“Come on, let’s sit on the potty and have some breakfast,” said John. “Big day today.” 

Sherlock waited until they were gone, and rolled back over onto his back. He listened to the pair of them clatter about in the loo, and then in the kitchen, faffing about with toast and jam and milk. Sherlock could hear Emily, dashing this way and that, constantly on the move, with John just able to keep up behind her. 

John had reached up to Sherlock, pulled him down for another kiss. Six weeks since he’d woken up in hospital. Two weeks off most of the medications. One week out of physical therapy. 

Sherlock let out a long breath. And Emily would be going to school today. 

He swung his legs out of the bed and reached for the pajamas that John insisted stay close. Sherlock preferred to sleep naked, but though John had once preferred it too, he wore clothes every night now. Sherlock could almost see the point – easier, wearing clothing, if Emily should need them in the middle of the night, as she almost always did. 

Sherlock couldn’t sleep in clothes. That he rarely slept even when _out_ of them was hardly the point. 

If Emily was in school… 

John and Emily sat at the table in the sitting room, giggling and eating their toast with jam – Emily with a mug of milk, John with his mug of tea. Sherlock found his own mug waiting on the kitchen counter, already prepped with sugar and a teabag, just waiting for the water. 

“Ah, you _are_ awake,” said John. “I was beginning to wonder.” 

“Of course I’m awake,” said Sherlock, feigning insult quite easily. “Today is a big day, as you’ve been saying. Wouldn’t do to sleep through it.” 

“I almost thought you might,” said John dryly. “Emily, stop dunking your toast in your milk.” 

“I like it better,” said Emily. 

“Doesn’t matter, it’s disgusting. Sherlock, there’s bread in the toaster if you want toast.” 

“I don’t want toast,” said Sherlock, and he walked behind John, and brushed the back of his neck with his fingertips as he went. 

Emily frowned and glared at him, and dunked her toast in her milk again, defiantly. 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her, and leaned in to kiss John’s temple, before moving on to his chair. 

“Macaroni cheese for tea,” said Emily, and John, who missed everything, said, “All right.” 

* 

Emily left for school with Mrs Hudson, who had shopping to do that morning, and John went to shower shortly after. All of these were activities that had Sherlock’s approval: Emily in school, where she couldn’t glare at him for staking a claim on John; Mrs Hudson out doing the shopping, leaving them the freedom of being quite as loud as they wished; John taking a shower, which Sherlock was tempted to interrupt, except the stall was quite small enough and the last thing Sherlock wanted was to have either of them slipping on the water and needing casts, necessitating additional time for recovery. Sherlock had had enough of recovery times, thankyouverymuch. 

To occupy the time, Sherlock stretched out on the sofa, and tried to catalogue all the lovely things he intended to do to John once John was out of the shower. Kissing, that was an absolute must. Followed by touching, followed by tasting, incorporating both licking and sucking. Standing to start, lying down after a short time, because John _was_ only just cleared for normal activities; it would be a shame if John grew tired before Sherlock was done…. 

“Sherlock.” 

Sherlock heard John, but in the distant way one hears traffic on the street, or a door opening and closing. Background noise, perhaps important, but not quite pertinent to the moment at hand. John would of course be naked, so there would not be any bother about clothing. And Sherlock’s pajamas were easily shucked – perhaps he ought to disrobe now, simply to save time. There were, after all, only six hours in Emily’s school day, and Mrs Hudson might return after lunch… 

“ _Sherlock_.” 

Vaguely more insistent; John would lose his temper in exactly 26 seconds. They could start in the sitting room, of course, though the curtains weren’t drawn. Someone across the road might see. Ah well, perhaps they’d learn a thing or two… 

“Oh for – _Sherlock Bloody Holmes_.” 

Sherlock opened his eyes. “Yes, John?” 

“I’m off,” said John, and Sherlock frowned, glancing at his bondmate. John was dressed. 

_Dressed_. Sherlock frowned. Dressing on any other occasion was not noteworthy in itself. He had insisted on dressing every day for the last four weeks, even if it was only a shirt and trousers. But today, instead of wearing considerably less clothing, John had included socks, shoes, and a tie, of all things. What’s more, he was wearing his black leather coat and hat, and was in the process of tying a scarf around his throat. 

“Off where?” 

John sighed. “To the clinic. My first day back.” 

“Why?” 

“Because it’s been six weeks since the accident,” said John in a tone that sounded patient to everyone but Sherlock, who recognized it as exasperated. “I’ve been cleared to return to most normal activities, which includes work on a part-time basis. You do know this. I’ve been telling you this all weekend.” 

_Big day. Return to normal activities._

Sherlock took a breath and tried to keep his tone even. John hadn’t meant… 

Bugger. 

“I meant why you are returning at all.” 

John sighed. “We’ve been over this. Someone has to earn a paycheck.” 

“I have a trust fund.” 

“It’s for Emily’s education.” 

“It’s a very large trust fund.” 

“And we’re not touching it,” said John shortly. “Besides, I _like_ working. You might enjoy spending your days thinking and attempting to blow up the refrigerator, but I want to be a little more productive with my time.” 

“I need you here for when Lestrade calls with a case.” 

John didn’t say anything for a few moments. Sherlock heard him sigh heavily. 

“Sherlock,” said John gently, “Greg’s not going to call you. Remember, he told you – the public might have forgiven you, but his commissioner hasn’t.” 

“Fools, the lot of them.” 

“Which is exactly what you made them look like. They’re not entirely willing to trust you again.” 

_And you, John? Do you trust me?_

Sherlock shoved the thought away and swung his legs off the sofa. “He’ll call. It’s a matter of time, that’s all.” 

“Right,” said John softly, and he leaned forward, placed his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. He seemed to hesitate a moment before dropping a kiss on Sherlock’s cheek. “I won’t be gone very long, Sarah’s only got me covering the lunch rush today. Nice easy start back into working again.” 

“Mmm.” Sherlock’s leg was jittery, bouncing up and down. He knew John saw it, wondered about it, worried about what it might mean. But Sherlock didn’t stop it from bouncing; didn’t care what John interpreted from it, because John would have it all wrong anyway. 

“Back soon,” said John, and was gone before Sherlock could grab his wrist, to pull him back onto the sofa and kiss him goodbye properly. 

Sherlock listened to John ease his way down the stairs, where once he would jog. The door opened and closed, and Sherlock went to look out the window, watched John try to flag down a passing taxi, where once he would have walked confidently to the Tube. All evidence of John’s still lingering recovery, the aches and pains he ignored during the day, but which flared up at night once Emily had gone to bed. 

Sherlock watched until the taxi had disappeared from view before turning away from the window and reaching for his mobile. The text was written and sent within minutes, and he sat on the sofa, his feet bouncing on the ground, while he waited for the reply. 

_Do you have anything? SH_

_No. GL_

_I need a case. SH_

_I can’t give you what I don’t have, Sherlock. GL_

Sherlock threw the mobile across the room, where it landed neatly on his chair, bouncing a little before falling to the ground. He jumped off the sofa and went to shower, and imagined that he heard the mobile ring three separate times. 

_Normal activities_. Sherlock wondered what constituted _normal_ anymore. There wasn’t anything normal, as far as Sherlock could tell. Normal was waking up with John, perhaps seeing him off to work some days, but being called in by Lestrade on most of them, taking in clients and chasing down culprits and giggling in alleyways and staying up until all hours and having Chinese out of paper boxes at 2 a.m. 

Normal wasn’t sending Emily off to school with a packed lunch, and John wearing a tie and stethoscope, off to the clinic to try his hand at doctoring for a few hours, while Sherlock waited on the sofa for the world to come to their senses and realize he was _right_. 

The morning passed slowly. Sherlock sulked on the couch for ninety minutes before he gave up, having concluded that sulking without an audience was boring, and reminded him entirely too much of the previous three years without anyone. Sherlock didn’t like the additional reminder; bad enough seeing Emily, a person in her own right who hadn’t existed before he left, and the changes she’d wrought in John’s definition of “normal”. He pulled out the latest box of test tubes and set them on the kitchen table. 

Mrs Hudson returned sometime during lunch; Sherlock heard the door to 221 open and close, with no sound on the steps. Quite a lot of shopping, if the sound of her scurrying back and forth between the front door and her own flat was any indication. 

John returned near two in the afternoon. A taxi outside, a bit of chat floating up on the air. The door to 221 opening and closing with a soft click, and then finally, steps on the stairs coming up, slowly, as if John were too tired to handle anything more than one step at a time. 

If he was tired from a few hours of sitting and listening to others complain about their own aches and pains…Sherlock didn’t hold out much hope for the hour before Emily returned home from school. 

John entered the flat with a sigh, and collapsed on the sofa near the door. Sherlock glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, assessing. Dark circles under his eyes. Hair slightly mussed. Skin a bit paler, thin bit of sweat at his brow. No tremor in his hand or his legs, however, and after a moment, John sat up and reached to untie his shoes. 

“How did it go?” asked Sherlock into the silence, and John paused as he pulled one shoe off his foot. 

“All right,” he said finally. “Glad I was only there for a half shift, though. Bit of ‘flu going around. Sarah let me bring home jabs for you and Emily.” 

“I’m all right.” 

“Doctor’s orders,” said John mildly. “I had mine in hospital.” 

Sherlock blinked into his microscope, and thought of John with the flu, Emily with the flu… 

“I can take it now,” he said, and pulled away from the microscope, and started to roll up his sleeve. 

John’s mouth dropped open, and then he shrugged and reached for his coat. “That was a bit easier than I expected. And take off your shirt, I need to put it in your bicep, not your elbow, idiot.” 

“Unless you think I should allow Emily to observe, so she doesn’t cry.” 

“No, she’s good with shots. Thinks they’re fascinating, usually wants to do it herself.” John frowned as he pulled out the wrapped syringe and the small glass jar of fluid. “Bit too like you, sometimes.” 

Sherlock pulled the chair over from the table to sit in front of John. He unbuttoned his shirt and slipped it off one shoulder, and turned just enough to give John access. 

John’s hand was cool on Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock watched John’s face as he gave him the injection, the concentration in his eyes, the way he held his lips together. Close up, the sweat on John’s brow wasn’t anything more than dampness accumulated while wearing his hat; the paleness of his skin wasn’t being ill but simply being tired. 

Sherlock felt the needle slide under his skin, the faint burn of the immunization as John pressed the plunger, and the ripping sound of the plaster as John removed it from its wrapping. 

“There,” said John softly. “Done.” 

Sherlock waited until John had turned the syringe in on itself, and then reached forward and kissed him. John, under his lips and his hands, was compliant, soft, almost sleepy in his responses. Sherlock cradled his head between his hands and didn’t press forward, didn’t try to take more than he thought John was willing to give. He didn’t let John lead – but he knew enough not to go where John didn’t want to follow. 

It was a lazy kiss; Sherlock pressed his lips onto John’s in a series of careful questions, opening his lips only when John turned his face up to his. He tasted bitter and milky, like tea that had gone cold with sitting, the flavor not improved with the addition of milk after the fact. Sherlock could feel, rather than hear, the thrum in John’s throat, the soft sighs and moans as he ran his tongue along John’s, moved his fingers across John’s skin to touch the soft, fine hairs at the nape of his neck. 

When Sherlock felt John’s hands on his arms, his fingers wrap around him to hold him near – something in him _shifted_. The bond, a tight knot under his heart, which was normally so tense and solid, seemed to relax, to open, as if it was reaching out for John just as his arms reached for him. Sherlock moved toward him, as if he was responding to the bond instead of any actual thought process of his own. 

John didn’t seem to mind. Sherlock half thought he could feel John’s mouth form a smile, felt him reach up into his mouth eagerly. And for once, there wouldn’t be any interruption – no Emily to burst in, Mrs Hudson asleep watching telly downstairs, no unexpected client, no call from Lestrade… 

_Buzz._

Sherlock paused only long enough to register the noise. 

_Buggering fuck._

Part of him wanted to answer. The other part of him, the bond and everything it controlled (which was quite a bit of his lower regions), wanted to concentrate on John. 

_Buzz buzz._

“Sherlock,” said John, and Sherlock opened his eyes to see John looking up at him. “Your mobile.” 

“Busy,” said Sherlock, and he tried, desperately, not to look at the flashing screen. It didn’t matter who was ringing him. He had John and he had an hour and he had every intention of enjoying the first in the time frame of the second. 

He didn’t care who it was. Even if it was Lestrade, if there was a case, a nice murder to set the world to right. 

_Buzz buzz buzz._

“Go on and look,” said John. 

Sherlock gave one last, half-longing look into John’s face, and lunged for the mobile just as it let out another series of buzzes. 

“Lestrade,” he gasped, and had a whole new reason to loathe the man. He answered the mobile. “Tell me someone is dead.” 

“Glad to know you’re still your cheery, optimistic self,” said Greg on the other end of the line. “Yes, someone’s dead. Two someones. Murder-suicide.” 

“If it were murder-suicide you wouldn’t have called me.” 

“Murder weapon’s not here.” 

“Then it’s murder-murder, isn’t it?” 

“I’ve got a visual,” said Lestrade grimly. “Check your incoming photos.” 

Sherlock did, and chortled with glee. 

“Only you,” said Lestrade grimly. “I’m sending you the address.” 

“We’ll be there in half an hour,” said Sherlock. “Er. Forty minutes.” 

He snapped the phone shut and turned to John. “Where were we?” 

“More to the point,” said John, fending him off, “is where do you think we’re _going_?” 

“I was hoping for the bedroom, but as we only have twenty minutes, the sofa will have to do.” 

“Sherlock,” said John, in a pointed and serious tone that Sherlock dimly recalled as being one that did not lend itself to love-making. “I meant where Lestrade wants you to go.” 

Sherlock paused, his hand already stretched out for John. Sherlock didn’t want to deduce John just then. He didn’t want to look at him, and see the tenseness in his shoulders (annoyance), the shadows under his eyes (weariness), the way he held his jaw – not clenched, but not entirely loose, as if he expected to argue (resigned fear – as if he knew this would happen eventually). “Us, John. Both of us.” 

“Emily is coming home in less than an hour. I can’t go rushing off to solve a murder.” 

Sherlock waved his hand. “Mrs Hudson can watch her.” 

“All night?” John shook his head. 

“This will hardly take all night, John.” 

John shook his head. “It’s a murder-suicide that isn’t a murder-suicide, Sherlock, you don’t know how long it’ll take. With you, it’s either twenty minutes or twenty hours.” 

“Mrs Hudson has watched Emily for that long before, it wasn’t a problem,” said Sherlock. 

“I was in _hospital_ , that was different.” 

“So someone’s still in hospital, it’s just not either of us,” said Sherlock, and John stared at up him, incredulous. 

“The fact that I have to explain the difference between being in hospital and being in the _morgue_ to you is so completely outside the realm of ridiculous that it doesn’t even bear discussion,” said John finally. “Emily is coming home in forty-five minutes. I’m not leaving this flat.” 

“Well,” said Sherlock, crossing his arms and glaring at John as he sat down with the thump on the chair. “I’m not leaving it without you.” 

“So you’ll just let Lestrade solve the murder without you?” 

“He thinks it’s a murder-suicide without a weapon. He’s hardly going to solve the murder without me, John.” 

“Really.” John crossed his arms. “So you’ll let the real killer run free while you sit here and sulk?” 

Sherlock glared at him, and wondered how the hell the conversation had gone so wrong. 

“I’d catch him if you _came with me_.” 

“I _can’t_.” 

“I don’t see why not. Mrs Hudson wouldn’t mind.” 

“It’s not whether or not she would _mind_ , Sherlock, it’s the precedent we’d be setting. You keep forgetting, we’re parents now, we have a responsibility toward Emily and that means being here for her when she needs us. I can’t go rushing off to crime scenes and leaving her to fend for herself just because you want me there to bounce ideas off.” 

A tightening in his chest – the bond, slowly closing back up, drawing in on itself again. It took everything Sherlock had not to rub at his chest. “Is that all you think I need you for?” 

“Isn’t it?” 

Sherlock shook his head. “You used to need it, John. The adrenaline and the rush and the _thrill_. All I had to say was ‘dangerous’ and you were off.” 

“That was before,” said John, but Sherlock saw the flicker in his eyes. The flicker that said _I remember_. 

Sherlock swallowed. “John.” 

“Go,” said John. 

The moment where Sherlock was kissing John, drawing him in, reaching out to hold him close – it was gone, finished, forgotten. Sherlock looked at his bondmate and he might have been someone else entirely, no one he knew in any sense of the word, no one he’d linked to for life. With the one word, Sherlock felt as though anything that had lain between them had been irrevocably severed. 

It _hurt_. Sherlock felt as if he were falling, that John was drawing further away, and he hated it. 

“You need this,” said John. “You’ve been waiting for Lestrade to call, you need to be out there solving the murders and keeping your brain from getting bored. Christ, I’m surprised you’re even still here, that you weren’t out the door in a flash without a backwards glance. I’m telling you, it’s all _right_. I’ll stay here for Emily, and I’ll be here when you get back, and you can tell me all about it. This isn’t the first time you’ve had to solve something without me.” 

“No,” said Sherlock. “I suppose not.” 

“Go,” insisted John, and he smiled, just a small one – encouraging and almost loving. 

“Is that what you want?” 

John nodded, without speaking, and Sherlock saw his throat contract as he swallowed. John didn’t speak. Sherlock half thought he didn’t dare. 

Sherlock nodded, the deductions already forming in the back of his mind about what John did not actually say. He ignored them, and listened to what John was telling him. 

“I’ll just…go, then.” 

He rose from the chair and went for his coat and his scarf. Sherlock could act, he was very good at it, he knew, but acting as if he actually wanted to go to the crime scene, alone, was perhaps more than he was capable of doing. Still, he turned to smile gamely at John, and found the other man standing behind him, ready to straighten his scarf around his neck. 

“Pick up Chinese when you’re done, and you can tell me all about it,” said John. 

“Right,” said Sherlock, and left. 

* 

It was wrong, it was all _wrong_ , and Sherlock felt the wrongness brush up against him with every move he made. Every deduction fell flat (even though they were correct), every twist in the story was banal (even though they kept him on his toes), every chase was boring (even though one led through the backstage area of the Old Vic). 

Sherlock knew it would be wrong from the first moment when Lestrade turned to him and said, “Oi, where’s John?” 

Sherlock had nearly wanted to punch him. _Lestrade_ , of all people. 

“Hoping he’d see the light and find his way to you?” snapped Sherlock, and strode away before he actually _did_ punch the other alpha. Sherlock wasn’t sure what annoyed him more: Lestrade’s interest in John, or the fact that when faced with it, he’d only been able to scrape up such a boring retort. 

And that was it, wasn’t it? It was _boring_ , all of it was _boring_. The case was boring, Lestrade was boring, the murderer was boring, the fate of the weapon was boring. And that John was _right_ , that was the most boring of all, because while the case didn’t take twenty hours to solve, it didn’t take twenty minutes either, and Sherlock glared and spat and sulked his way through the eight hours it _did_ take to finally run the murderer down to earth, and he stood in front of the Chinese restaurant for ten minutes, hands shoved angrily in his pockets, and thought, hard. 

The facts, as Sherlock saw them: He was Sherlock Holmes. He was the world’s only consulting detective. He was mated to John Watson, the world’s other only consulting detective. 

Sherlock Holmes solved crimes when the police were in over their heads, which was nearly always. John Watson was always there, and when he wasn’t there…the crimes weren’t nearly as interesting. 

Sherlock only wanted to solve the interesting murders. Murders were never interesting without John. Ergo, Sherlock needed John Watson. 

This was very simple logic. The only problem was how to make it happen, because John was clearly not about to leave Emily alone, and murders did not always conveniently occur between the hours of nine and three. 

The door to the restaurant opened, and a group of young people came out, chattering away. They passed Sherlock, heading into the night, brushing up against him, and that seemed to shake the memory loose. 

_Aha._

Sherlock pulled the mobile out of his pocket and quickly sent the text. Once done, he went into the restaurant to place his order. 

The response came as he was carrying the bags of food home, some twenty minutes later. 

_Bit domestic, isn’t it, bringing home the fruits of your labor for your mate? In your case, spring rolls._

Sherlock frowned at the message, but noted the document Mycroft had attached. 

Names, addresses, contact information, and even brief summaries of their abilities. Enough information that there was very little chance he’d found them all in the span of twenty minutes. 

Sherlock’s mouth quirked. He pocketed the mobile again, and turned onto Baker Street. 

John was asleep on the sofa; Sherlock knew the moment he opened the door to the flat and saw the lamp still lit. By the time Sherlock had set down the food on the table, however, John was already blinking awake, sitting up and yawning. 

“How’d it go, then?” 

“Boring,” said Sherlock, and he handed John the package of spring rolls. “The restaurant has changed ownership.” 

“The old couple retired, it’s the grandchildren running it now,” said John. He took the package of spring rolls. 

“They’ve completely destroyed their menu. We’ll go somewhere else after the next case.” 

“Went well, then?” And then John frowned, as the terminology sunk in. “We?” 

“Of course, ‘we’. You’ll be able to join me by then.” 

“Because Lestrade isn’t calling you back until Emily’s at uni?” asked John, almost amused. 

Sherlock sighed. “Of course not. We are going to hire a nanny.” 

John paused while opening the boxes of noodles and beef with broccoli. “I – what?” 

“A nanny, John,” said Sherlock, impatient now. “Where are the chopsticks?” 

“In the bag,” said John. 

“Is there tea?” Sherlock left the food unpacked and went into the kitchen. Suddenly, the world wasn’t boring anymore. It was infinitely interesting again, and they were going to hire a nanny for Emily, and John would be able to come with him on cases. 

“Sherlock!” 

Sherlock poked his head out of the kitchen and saw John standing next to the food, confused and still more than a little asleep. “Chinese, John. Nannies, John. Chopsticks in the bag, tea in the kitchen. Keep up, John.” 

Sherlock ducked back into the kitchen and turned on the kettle, suddenly filled with glee. He heard John curse in the sitting room, and that only filled him with _more_ glee, and Sherlock started opening drawers, where he knew he’d seen a few extra sets of chopsticks. 

By the time he’d returned with tea, John had laid out their food for them. Sherlock grinned happily and sat across from him. 

“All right,” said John firmly. “Explain.” 

“You’re not usually this thick, John,” complained Sherlock. “Is this the amount of brain deterioration I can expect to experience after three years of parenthood? Or is it the vestigial remains of pregnancy brain?” 

“Sod off,” said John, but didn’t mean it. “Explain to me how you left to solve a murder nine hours ago and you’re coming home now, talking about nannies.” 

Sherlock grinned at him. “The murder was _boring_.” 

“If it’d been boring you would have been home in time for dinner.” 

“Murders are always boring when you’re not there,” said Sherlock. “Therefore, you need to accompany me on my cases. However, we must ensure that Emily is cared for while you are with me. Ergo, a nanny.” 

John frowned. “We don’t need a nanny.” 

“If you mean ‘need’ as in ‘cannot afford’, I assure you that we can. Particularly since I’m working again, and can supplement your income.” 

“ _One case_ , Sherlock. You had _one_ case with the police, and they don’t pay.” 

“The others do, the ones who read your ludicrous excuse of a blog, and you can hardly write entries about my solving cases if you’re not there to witness.” 

John threw up his hands. “Where on earth would we find a nanny?” 

Sherlock dropped his phone on the table, and took a mouthful of noodles. 

John scrutinized the list. “Mycroft.” 

“Of course.” 

“How long has he been working on _this_?” 

Sherlock shrugged. “Since I returned? He had it to me in twenty minutes.” 

John sighed and rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know…it’s bad enough that Emily’s in school six hours a day. Can we really leave her in someone else’s care for the rest of it?” 

“I had nannies growing up. I turned out well enough.” 

John didn’t say anything. When Sherlock looked up from his noodles, he saw the odd look on John’s face. “What?” 

“Right,” said John, shaking his head. He dug into his beef with oysters and didn’t look back up. “I just don’t see why—” 

Sherlock set down the box of noodles. “John. Did you or did you not want to come with me today?” 

John kept digging in his food, as if he expected to find a golden ticket buried underneath. 

“John.” 

“Doesn’t matter,” said John gruffly. “Needed to be here for Emily, so I stayed here for her.” 

“ _John_.” 

“All right, fine, I did,” snapped John. He glared up at Sherlock. “Happy?” 

Sherlock grinned. “No, and neither were you, because you didn’t come with me. I require that you be happy, John. Therefore, we require a nanny who we can trust to leave with Emily when our schedules do not allow us to remain with her ourselves.” 

John frowned. “The way you’re putting it sounds more like an on-call babysitter.” 

“If that’s how you’d rather phrase it,” said Sherlock, returning to his noodles. “The semantics are boring.” 

John was quiet for a moment. “This isn’t a carte blanche, you know. We can’t go running off every day to solve murders – we’re still _parents_.” 

“Of course, John. Most of the cases are easily solved quickly; I doubt we’d leave Emily in her waking, non-school hours more than once a week or so. She’ll never know we’re gone.” 

“I doubt _that_ ,” said John. 

“Well, she wouldn’t mind, if we hired someone she could love.” Sherlock leaned over and peered at the list on his phone. “This one, John. She’s a beta, speaks seven languages, is a black-belt in karate, and her hobbies include molecular chemistry and scuba diving.” 

“She sounds perfect, if Mycroft is hiring new assistants. I was rather thinking it would be nice if the nanny had some actual experience in taking care of small children. Or at least training in first-aid.” 

Sherlock pointed at another one. “This one is studying to be a forensic pathologist.” 

“Wonderful, she can teach Emily how to perform autopsies.” 

“Now you’re catching on,” said Sherlock, pleased. He scrolled through the list of names, glancing quickly at the qualifications that Mycroft had listed with them. John would want to interview them, he suspected. And perhaps Emily would want some sort of face-time with the proposed nanny as well. Housing, housing might be problematic, if there were late nights involved. Sherlock wondered if Mrs Hudson would be averse to finally renting them 221C… 

“I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this.” 

Sherlock paused, and glanced up. “John…” 

“No, it’s just…” John laughed, and ran his hand over his hair. “Two months ago, I didn’t expect to be eating Chinese with you at midnight, talking about hiring a nanny for Emily.” 

And then John smiled at him. He was tired, yes, and he hadn’t eaten much of the food. But the smile reached his eyes, just a little, and Sherlock remembered leaping from building to building, with this man behind him, and he smiled back. 

“This one,” said Sherlock, pointing to a name. “He’s been trained in CPR, had vocal training, and has more than a passing interest in marine biology. Specifically, the mating habits of the American codfish.” 

John rolled his eyes and pulled the mobile away from Sherlock. “As scintillating as that sounds, I’d rather eat my dinner without thinking about the mating habits of fish.” 

“Whose mating habits would you like to discuss, then?” asked Sherlock, before he could catch himself, and John looked about as startled as he himself felt. For a few moments, the sitting room was quiet, with the faintest hint of a cool breeze accelerating the heat Sherlock felt rising to his cheeks. 

“That’s a—” started John, as Sherlock said, “What I mean is—” 

“No, go on,” said John, while Sherlock said, “What is it?” 

“Too soon for—?” asked John, and just then, the familiar voice: 

“Daddy!” 

John sighed, and stuck his chopsticks in the box of food. “Right,” he said under his breath. “Right.” John shoved his chair back and stood. “We’ll go over the list tomorrow.” 

“Of course,” said Sherlock, and watched him go. He leaned back, having forgotten the noodles already, and pressed his lips together in thought. 

There were words for what Emily was. But Sherlock loved her too much to voice them. 

_Love_. That was almost a strange thought in itself; when Sherlock had been racing around the world, trying to eradicate the threat against John, he hadn’t given much thought to Emily. He’d pass glances at children and try to determine their ages, without comparing them to the child he knew existed. He would watch parents discipline (or not) their offspring, wonder if John – or himself, for that matter – was capable of the same stoutness of heart in the face of a screaming child. 

It wasn’t until actually meeting Emily, being confronted with the reality of her, that she became real to him. Much the same way that James Moriarty hadn’t been real until he’d met the man at the side of a pool. A shadowy figure, a name without a face or shape. 

Emily hadn’t even had the name or the shape. Only the idea. 

All Sherlock had really wanted, on his return, was a return to normalcy. Sitting with John, in 221B, reading the paper or pecking at his laptop. Having just returned from a case, triumphant and comfortably full of Chinese. Playing a song on his violin to cheer them against the cold nights, before falling into bed, into each other – if they were lucky, into a comfortable heat that would envelop them against the rest of the world. 

They’d probably never sit in companionable silence again – not until Emily was grown, anyway. And John wasn’t well enough to come off the suppressants anytime soon – not that they’d had much chance to enjoy each other without them. 

But solving cases together was on the horizon, now, even if the substandard Chinese was growing cold, and there was one thing Sherlock could have immediately. 

Sherlock stood on the landing, halfway between his level and hers, and set the violin under his chin. 

_He plays the violin…_

Softly, softly. Not too loud, so as to let Mrs Hudson sleep. Not too softly, so that its intended recipient could hear it. A shuffling from the upper level; Sherlock glanced up to see John open the door to Emily’s room. 

_He tucks it right under his chin…_

John smiled, and ducked back into the dark room. He left the door cracked, just so. 

Sherlock smiled, closed his eyes, and played. 

_For it’s high, high, high diddle-diddle_   
_And God bless the man and his fiddle…_


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to dduane for her help with Dublin, where I have never been and yet still felt compelled to write. The pub John visits is loosely based on McDaid’s in Dublin. Any differences between the actual McDaid’s and really anything in Ireland can be attributed to the fact that this is an AU in which men get pregnant, and should not be a reflection on Diane’s awesome assistance.
> 
> My apologies for those who were waiting in vain this morning for today’s chapter; my fault entirely, a combination of sleeping in, spring break, and toddler sons who demand attention. I’ll try to do better with posting the last half of the story on time! (And no, I never mind ANYONE asking me or sending me pokes to post!)

When the black car pulled up opposite John as he stood at the kerb just outside Dublin Airport, he stared for a moment, trying to decide if he was surprised or not. 

“What the hell,” he sighed finally, and climbed inside. When he saw Mycroft sitting on the far end of the seat, he instantly thought of Emily, and the vast number of disasters that might have occurred which would have prompted Mycroft to fetch him at the airport. 

But no. Mycroft was quite calmly reading a newspaper, turning pages casually, and seeing this, Mycroft in his normal habits, did more to calm John’s worries than anything else. 

“John,” said Mycroft pleasantly. 

“What, there’s no abandoned car-parks in Dublin? Dilapidated warehouses? Dark alleyways suitable for sinister meetings?” 

Mycroft turned a page of his newspaper. “Pleasant flight?” 

“Lovely. There was time for peanuts.” 

“If you’d wanted to travel incognito, there are better ways of doing it,” said Mycroft. “One of which involves not traveling under your actual name.” 

John grinned. “How long did your men follow Harry before they figured it out?” 

Mycroft folded the newspaper and settled it on his lap. “You could always have asked me for assistance.” 

John snorted. “Hullo, Mycroft, I need to talk to your brother while he’s off faffing about trying to save my life. Mind telling me where he is?” 

“I could have arranged for a message—” 

“That’s why I didn’t contact you, Mycroft. I don’t want Sherlock getting a _message_. I’ve had enough of messages. I want to—” 

John broke off. Mycroft was giving him a very Mycroftian look – the sort that said “I am only humoring you, in fact I know every detail of what you are supposing and finding it all quite amusing”. 

“Do you know where Sherlock is?” asked John shortly. 

Mycroft rustled the paper on his lap. “Ah.” 

John frowned and waited. 

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty—” 

“Piss off, Mycroft,” said John. “This is me asking. You’ve done enough to fuck up my life in the last couple of years, I think you owe me.” 

Mycroft cleared his throat. “Sherlock went off the grid 27 hours ago. He was meant to contact me three hours ago. He did not.” 

Mycroft was calm in saying it. He could have been stating that Sherlock was, in fact, driving the car and that it really wasn’t of any great concern. But John looked hard at him, and saw the tick in his jaw, the way his fingers tapped against the newspaper, the dark circles under his eyes, and the slight elongation of his earlobe, as if he’d only recently been pulling on it. 

Mycroft might have been calm. But he was very, very worried. 

John was very careful – he didn’t move, didn’t blink, didn’t change his breathing pattern. He didn’t so much as twitch a finger. But every single bit of his attention went straight to the bond knot, checking it carefully. It still held. Sherlock was still alive. John was sure of it. 

“All right,” said John carefully. “Where was he going?” 

Mycroft shook his head, and with a single look at John’s expression, spoke quickly. “Ireland. I don’t know specifics. He was not terribly forthcoming.” 

John nodded, somehow believing him. “Do you think I know something you don’t?” 

“Dr Watson,” said Mycroft dryly, and John almost smiled at the use of his title, “I think you know many things I do not.” He shuffled the newspaper again, and pulled out a large envelope. “Sherlock has gone off the grid previously. It was a near-constant state during his first…absence, I suppose we could call it. He did so less often recently, but it was not uncommon. What is uncommon is the length, and the fact that he has neglected to check in.” 

“Neglected,” John interrupted. “As in, you think he’s fine and he just hasn’t got around to telling you yet.” 

“Precisely.” 

“That’s not like Sherlock.” 

“That’s exactly like Sherlock.” 

“Sherlock, not learn something fascinating and want to share it with me immediately?” said John. 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Not you, John. Me. And Sherlock very rarely shares anything of such import with me.” 

John bit his lip, and nodded his head. “Fair enough. What’s in the file?” 

Mycroft handed it to him. “Everything we know about Nola Moriarty. As you have recently returned from Spain, I suspect much of this will be known to you.” 

“And you brought it to me yourself. I’m touched.” John opened the envelope and peered at the papers inside. 

“Certain people needed to be reassured that you are well and have not lost your senses,” said Mycroft dryly. 

John glanced up at him. “Aurora.” 

Mycroft shrugged. 

“So you want me to follow Sherlock’s trail and find him?” 

“More importantly, John, I think you do. Or you would not have engineered your escape from the estate in order to do so.” 

Mycroft reached into his briefcase again, and this time pulled out John’s Sig. 

“Ah,” said John, eyeing the gun. 

“I know I shouldn’t have to remind you of the various implications should you be arrested with it,” said Mycroft. “My influence only extends so far.” 

John slid the gun into its usual place at the small of his back. “Any hope that the lovely Emma has made a reservation for me to sleep somewhere?” 

“And here you were, trying to be self-sufficient.” 

“Sod self-sufficient, if I’m going to do your work for you, you’ll be footing the bill,” said John, and Mycroft actually smiled. John emptied the envelope onto his lap. Papers: a birth certificate, school records, travel itineraries. John frowned. “Mycroft – these are all forty years old. You’re honestly telling me you don’t have anything recent on her?” 

“It would appear that Nola Moriarty is quite good at hiding in the shadows,” said Mcyroft dryly. “Need I remind you what James was capable of doing with the public record? Simply obtaining these documents was complicated enough.” 

“I’m sure,” muttered John, and scanned them. “Father Niall; her mother died in childbirth.” 

“Yes.” 

“Employment contracts for a succession of nannies from her birth to age thirteen. Excellent marks at school, but she left uni after a few years without a degree.” 

“Your point?” asked Mycroft. 

John set down the papers. “My _point_ is that this all sounds very familiar. As you should know.” 

“I know,” said Mycroft softly. “It’s Sherlock, played thirty years earlier.” 

“Yes,” said John, and he rifled through the papers again, agitated without quite knowing why. “There’s nothing in here about what happened after Spain.” 

“You’ll find the death certificates for Mario and Diego—” 

“But that was _in_ Spain. I’m talking about when she returned to Ireland afterwards. You’ve got every move she made until the day they died, but you don’t even have that she came back here.” 

“There are no records of her return.” 

“Well, she’s not in Spain. The people in Roses said she returned here.” John frowned. “ _Sherlock_ thought she returned here, or he wouldn’t have come here in the first place.” 

“Well,” said Mycroft. “I have very seldom been able to comprehend the actions my brother seemed to believe were obvious.” 

John rifled through the papers again, and the photograph slipped from his lap. John reached down to pick it up, and paused. 

Emily, sitting in the gardens on Aurora’s lap. Aurora held her granddaughter closely, their eyes closed, clearly giving and receiving comfort from each other. Emily’s dark curls were in chaos around her face, and John thought he could see the faint dampness under her eyes. There was a bruise on her arm that he didn’t recognize, and a scrape on her knee that he did. John knew the story of the scrape; Emily had tried to climb a tree three days before, and the branch had given way. She’d cried for exactly two seconds and then ran off before he’d even had a chance to kiss it better. The bruise was probably the result of a fall, and the fact that John didn’t know its story hurt in a way that was new. 

“Clever of you to hide the note in the teapot.” 

“Yes, well.” 

“That I would look after Emily, of course, never needed to be spelled out.” 

“You have a tendency to take instructions out of context,” said John, still looking at the photograph. “I didn’t really want there to be any doubt, in case neither Sherlock nor I returned.” 

“Doubt about Emily’s care, you mean.” 

“It’s always about Emily.” 

“She’s rather upset with you, but otherwise quite well.” 

John looked at the photo, of his daughter and her grandmother close together. It was impossible to look at it; it was impossible to look away, and all he wanted to do was to wipe away the tear that threatened to fall from his daughter’s cheek, to kiss her and tell her he was there. 

He’d already spent two days away from her, and here was proof that she was living without him, getting scrapes and bruises and crying and laughing and he had no idea what the stories were. 

_That’s why Sherlock didn’t want to know about her,_ thought John, and the realization cut deep. _Because there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it, and knowing he had no choice would have driven him mad._

Mycroft cleared his throat. “She seems to think you have gone to fetch Sherlock for her.” 

John slid the photograph into his coat pocket and looked Mycroft in the eye. 

“That’s because I have.” 

* 

The place to start was with Niall Moriarty. 

The problem was finding anything about him. Finding _him_ was easy. The man had been dead for forty years; he hadn’t moved from the cemetery in which he’d been buried. John didn’t think he’d actually find anyone in Dublin who remembered him. But he’d been wealthy enough, a prominent business man according to the papers Mycroft had supplied. John thought he’d find some mention of the man in newspaper accounts from the day. A morning in the library, scrolling through microfiche at grainy images of newspapers from forty and fifty years previously showed no mention of the man. 

John rethought his plan of attack, and went out on the streets to visit the actual storefronts. He learned two things: most of the stores Niall Moriarty had owned no longer existed – and that they’d all been located in the same area, close enough to a touristy shopping district that John heard just as many European and British accents as he did Irish. 

By the time John finished his walk, it was well past tea time, and he was hungry and tired and thirsty and far more turned around than he had any right to be, having lived in London for the past six years. The streets were tight and tiny, the buildings towering overhead, and he into the first pub he saw that was actually recognizable as a pub, tucked in between two plain-looking buildings as it were more a reminder of how a pub ought to look than actual pub. 

The bartender was busy with customers when John walked in, which gave John enough time for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, and allowed him to scope the pub for likely acquaintances. There weren’t many – the average age of the pub skewed younger than Niall Moriarty, though a bit older than John. The pub itself was the sort of dark-paneled charming-cheerful that John recognized – perhaps pubs all over the world followed the same decorating pattern – with the name stenciled on the mirror behind the bar, and framed by lights and bottles of various alcohols. 

“All right, mate?” asked the bartender. 

“A pint,” said John automatically. The drink was halfway to his lips before he remembered the baby, a bit like a half-remembered dream from several weeks before. Beer had less alcoholic content than wine; a glass of wine per week was perfectly reasonable during pregnancy. John considered, and took a sip anyway, but couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that Sherlock was somewhere, disapproving. 

_That’s my child’s brain cells you’re destroying_ , Sherlock told John. 

_Shut up, wanker_ , thought John in response, and his next sip was defiant. 

“You look like a man with the world of guilt on his shoulders,” said the bartender. 

John set the glass back down on the counter, glad for the excuse to stop drinking for the moment. The bartender had left the discussion at the far end of the pub, and leaned against the counter, drying a glass with a hand-towel. He actually appeared curious and sympathetic, and the combination was enough of a cliché that John wanted to laugh. 

“You’re not wrong,” said John. “Don’t suppose there’s a menu back there?” 

“Not as such. The burgers are good, if you’re hungry. Skip the chips, though. I’ll get you a packet of crisps.” 

“Ta.” 

The bartender went to put in the order, and returned with another wet glass. “Haven’t been long in Dublin, have you?” 

John nearly choked on his drink. “How did you know that?” 

“I’ve seen plenty,” said the bartender. He reached over his hand. “Tom.” 

“John.” 

“ _Cead mile failte_ , John. When did you arrive and how long until we see your back?” 

John chuckled. “In other words, ‘Hello, Brit, how long have you been here and when do you get the fock out’?” 

“There are those who would interpret it that way, aye.” But Tom’s eyes smiled, and John grinned at him in appreciation. “As long as you have euros....” 

“I do.” 

“Then by all means, spend your whole holiday here.” 

“My bondmate does that,” said John, lifting up his drink again. “Looks at someone and know things.” 

“Did they now? Learned it off a website, I did.” 

John tried not to laugh through the alcohol. _Christ, Sherlock, I just found the one man in Ireland who read your website._

“Useful trick, but didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know from working back here,” continued Tom. “Your mate in town with you?” 

“No,” said John. “I’m here looking for him. Looking for the people he was looking for, really. Names of Niall and Nola Moriarty? Father and daughter, Niall died about forty years ago but lived and worked near here….” 

John’s voice trailed off; Tom had stiffened the moment after he’d said their names. He set the glass down on the counter carefully, took a breath, and pushed away slowly. 

“Is that so. Can’t say I’ve heard the names before. Think I’ll check on your meal, mate,” he said, and left, quickly, into the back kitchen. 

John watched the door to the kitchens swing back and forth. Tom wasn’t the only one who could pick up on cues; the order had only just gone in, and John doubted the kitchen worked that quickly. 

He had the very clear idea that it might be better to not wait for his meal. 

John pulled a twenty out of his wallet and left it on the counter under his glass. More than necessary for the beer, but enough to hopefully cover the meal he wasn’t going to eat, either. And anyway, Tom had inadvertently given John warning just as much as he’d threatened him. 

It was barely half past six, but the storm clouds covering the city made it feel like twilight. John turned his collar up against the cold and moved quickly down the street. Back to the hotel, he supposed – the day’s search hadn’t really turned anything up…except it had, in a strange way. Whoever Niall Moriarty had been in life, he’d been effectively wiped away after his death, to the point that mere mention of his name was enough to frighten bartenders into some kind of nervous action. 

John didn’t put much on his chances of finding anyone willing to talk about the man anytime soon – not if the bartender had been that unnerved by the mere mention of his name. 

John could see the hotel when the van pulled up alongside him, and suddenly he found himself accompanied by two men wearing dark hoodies and placid expressions. 

“Fancy a ride, mate?” asked the man on the left – blue eyes, dark blond hair, rugged and about three stone heavier than John, most of which was muscle. 

“No thanks,” said John pleasantly. “I’ve got a mate already, and he’s a better-looking bloke than you.” 

“Told you he weren’t coming quiet-like,” said the man to the other bloke, and John really ought to have expected the bag that went over his head as he was tossed unceremoniously into the back of the van. His head hit the metalwork on the side; he only dimly heard the doors slam beside him. The tires squealed and John rolled as the van sped down the road. 

John wondered if anyone had seen the kidnapping. Surely someone might be calling the police right now… 

“Oi,” called John, fuzzy and already beginning to sweat under the hood, “you could at least buckle a bloke in.” 

“Shut yer hole,” growled one of the men, and the van took a corner tightly as John bounced off the side of the van again. 

The van was moving quickly; John could tell by the vibrations and the sounds of the engine. The men didn’t say a word, and John tried to brace himself into the corner. It seemed to work; the next time the van turned, he managed to ride through it without toppling over. 

_Should have left a tenner instead of the twenty_ , thought John wryly. 

John’s heart was pumping furiously, and he cursed himself for being so ridiculously stupid. He thought Sherlock would have cursed him as well – what kind of idiot honestly went asking everyone high and low about a man whose name was never mentioned, anyway? James Moriarty had been the spider lurking in the shadows; no one had even _guessed_ that Nola Moriarty existed. There was no reason to imagine that family patriarch hadn’t been the same. 

After what seemed like far too short of a time, the van stopped. John let the men pull him out without a fight – it was stupid to fight, when he couldn’t see and didn’t know where he was. They half carried, half pulled him along the ground. Grass, the sounds of birds, faint hint of rain in the air now. John could feel the cold on the back of his hands. 

And then he heard it – a rushing, rumbling, furious sound, like a crowd of distant people applauding. The moment John had placed the sound as water, someone roughly pulled his arms behind his back and handcuffed them together. Someone else pulled the bag from his head, and he was shoved forward, so quickly he barely had a chance to realize that he stood on the edge of a precipice, looking over a short drop to the churning water below. Someone held tightly to the handcuffs, keeping him from falling, and John felt his heart surging in his chest. 

_Holy fuck._

“So the lads and me are wondering,” said a cheerful voice behind John, “why a Brit and fine gentleman such as yourself is askin’ after poor Niall, forty years after he’s left us to better things.” 

“Genealogy?” asked John, and whoever held the handcuffs didn’t much care for the answer, because suddenly he felt himself start to lean closer to the water. John dug his toes into the grass, and tried to breathe normally. 

“Think you’re clever, do ye?” 

“Not much, no.” 

“True enough that,” said the man thoughtfully. “So I’ll ask you again, and this time try not to be more clever than you’ve the right to be. Niall’s been dead and gone, rest his soul, why are you so interested in him and his?” 

“That’s between me and Nola Moriarty,” said John. 

“Hmm.” 

“Don’t know who you are, do I?” challenged John. “Can’t exactly go mouthing off on private business with you.” 

“True enough. But if you had private business with Mrs Moriarty, you’d know better than to go asking for her father in the pubs, wouldn’t you now?” Something shifted behind him. “Drop him in, lad.” 

The grip on the handcuffs loosened. “I know about Diego!” shouted John, and he was caught up again, and pulled back entirely from the edge of the river and tossed to the grass below. 

The voice came low and close to his ear – a growling, angry sort of sound. “You little piece of traitorous shite—” 

Someone broke in, timid and afraid. “Dougal—” 

“Shut up!” shouted the man – Dougal, John thought. Dougal bent low over John again. “If you know about Diego then you must have been close. And if you don’t know how to reach her then you can’t be close anymore. Which makes you a traitor, I think, because the only ones who aren’t close to Nola Moriarty are dead. So we might as well just expedite what was previously neglected, don’t you think?” 

“Fuck off,” said John into the grass, choking for air. 

“Fock off—?” repeated Dougal, incredulous – and then stopped. 

Everything stopped, John thought. Dougal above him, his hot and heavy breath on the back of his neck, the sound of his companion moving as though unsure how to participate, the birds singing in the trees that surrounded them. The only sound John could hear was the continuous rushing of the river. 

And something softer, something quick and sharp, as if Dougal was _sniffing_ him. 

“You little—” said Dougal, wondrously, and he was off John like a rocket. “You’re focking _breeding_.” 

John coughed with the sudden influx of cold air into his lungs. There was a clinking sound, and John saw the keys to the handcuffs thrown on the grass near his chest. 

“Dougal!” 

“I can’t kill a fockin’ omega who’s gone up the pole,” snapped Dougal. 

“Mrs M said—" 

“I have _standards_.” 

“We can’t just leave him, he’ll talk.” The kid was visably nervous; John fumbled in the grass for a moment until he heard the telltale click, just as Dougal turned on him again. 

“You. Get out of Dublin in 24 hours or I’ll send someone who doesn’t have the scruples I do.” 

“Dougal…” said the young man again. 

“What?” shouted Dougal as he rounded on the kid, clearly annoyed with the entire situation. He didn’t see John coming, and less than two minutes after he’d been pushing John Watson into the ground, Dougal found himself in a similar position, reversed. 

“Hello, Dougal,” said John, as he straddled Dougal’s backside. He pointed Dougal’s gun at the other man, whose hands were already up in surrender. “We’ll give your mother credit for teaching you scruples. Your father ought to have taught you never to turn your back on an enemy, though.” 

“Piss off,” said Dougal into the grass. 

“Plan on it,” said John. “After you take me to Nola Moriarty.” 

Dougal didn’t say anything. John cocked the gun. 

“I trust you have a way to contact her?” asked John. “Mobile phone, text, writing in the sky?” 

“Don’t answer,” said Dougal. 

John pressed the gun next to Dougal’s ear. 

“Yes,” said the man, eyes wide. Dougal groaned. 

“The thing is,” said John, “I had a rather enlightening conversation with Mrs Moriarty a few months ago. And I’ve had some time to think about it, and there’s a few things I’d like to add. I’m sure she’d like to hear them, so perhaps you should ask her. The name’s John Watson. Go on, I’ll wait.” 

The man glanced between John and Dougal, and after a moment, Dougal nodded his head just enough. The man, hands shaking, pulled a mobile from his pocket. 

“Er,” said the man into the mobile after a few moments. “There’s a man here who says he wants a word with Mrs M. Name’s John Watson. He – ah – he has a gun on Dougal.” 

There was some violent shrieking on the other end of the line, and John tried not to grin. 

“Could you just go and _ask_?” groaned the man, and he turned back to John. “He’s going to ask.” 

“Oh, good,” said John pleasantly. 

It was a tense few moments that John thoroughly enjoyed before someone started barking orders through the mobile again. 

“All right,” said the man, and he took a step forward. “I’m supposed to give it to you.” 

John kept the gun on Dougal, and reached for the mobile. “John Watson speaking.” 

“Hello, Mr Watson,” said a smooth and familiar voice, the Irish accent slightly more pronounced than John remembered. “You understand of course that I need to ensure it is you and not an imposter.” 

“Oh, of course.” 

“Then you’ll remember what I said to you, in regards to my son.” 

John gritted his teeth. “That your son had Sherlock’s attention for the last four years. That Sherlock had chosen James over me.” 

Nola Moriarty chuckled. “Give the phone to Dougal, if you would be so kind?” 

John set the phone down on Dougal’s ear, and after a moment, Dougal bit out a, “Yes, ma’am.” He jerked his head, indicating he was done with the call, and John closed the mobile and tossed it back to the other man. 

“Excellent,” said John. “I suppose this means we’re going for a ride.” 

* 

Dougal wanted to blindfold him. John politely refused. 

“Look,” he said patiently. “Either your boss is going to kill me when I get there, which means I’m never going to tell anyone where I’ve been anyway, or she’s going to let me walk away, which means she doesn’t care if I do. So there isn’t much point in blindfolding me.” 

“Ye’ve got a mouth on ye, don’t ye?” snapped Dougal. 

“I’m also the one with the gun. Drive the fucking van, all right?” 

John had lost all track of time; it was somewhere in the middle of the night when they cleared Dublin, and the sky was already beginning to lighten before they reached their destination. John gazed out of the windows, bleary-eyed and exhausted, his stomach slowly rolling the forced wakefulness of the past few hours, the constant tension of worry for Emily and Sherlock, and the after bite of adrenaline from his kidnapping and desperate bid not to be tossed into a river. They’d stopped for petrol once, and John had bought a stack of sandwiches and tea with some of the dwindling stack of Euros. Dougal had refused anything, mostly out of pique; the other chap had eaten three in quick succession. 

Dougal had remained awake, staring with a seething hatred at John. After the first few hours, and the sandwiches, the other man had started to talk to John. It was music at first, as they talked about the songs on the radio. Then movies, then books, then schooling, and little by little, John worked to gain his trust. His name was Toph, short for Christopher, and he was younger than he looked, no more than 25. Alpha, recently mated, mate was pregnant and due in three weeks. They had a dog and a cat and a flat with a garden and Toph thought his job was grand, didn’t he get to have adventures every night now, and if there was a little bit of roughing up of innocent folks on the side, well now, not everyone was always as innocent as they seemed. Toph figured they got what came to those who didn’t pay attention – present company begging his pardon, of course. 

Dougal watched, and John had no doubt that the older man knew exactly what John was doing, and he didn’t care. John didn’t know what he’d find when face to face with Nola Moriarty, and if knowing a little bit about Toph meant a few extra seconds before his head was shot clean off, then John would take them. There was a lot one could do in such a short amount of time. 

“We’re almost there,” said Toph, as the sky turned a steel grey. They were near the sea, running alongside it with the sunrise behind them. John stared out at the landscape, green and verdant and picture-postcard-perfect. When he saw the grey stone castle at the end of the road, he started to wonder if he was driving into a fairy tale. 

Toph pulled the car up to the door and waited, not moving. Behind them, Dougal remained tense, his hands lightly on his knees, and John wrapped his hand more securely around the handle of his gun. 

After a moment, the door opened, and a man stepped outside, wearing dark trousers and a dark jumper over a collared white shirt and dark tie. His hair was slicked back, not a lock out of place, and he had a moustache which gave him an old-fashioned, proper air. He stepped smartly to the car and pulled open John’s door. 

“Mr Watson, if you please,” he said, and John slid out of the car with barely a backwards glance at Toph or Dougal. As soon as he slammed the door shut, Toph drove the car away. John began to shiver; they were close enough to the sea that the wind was fierce and bitingly cold. John thought he could feel shards of ice strike the exposed skin on his neck, face, and hands. But despite the light clothing, the other man didn’t seem to be bothered by the cold at all. 

“Follow me,” said the man. 

“And you are?” 

“The butler, sir.” 

“I’ll just call you Jeeves, then?” 

“As you like,” said Jeeves indifferently, and John followed him into the castle, but didn’t let go of his gun. 

The last time John had been in a castle was on a school field trip when he was ten. He didn’t remember much, except rough-housing with the other lads and shooting spitballs at the girls, endeavoring to make as much of a nuisance as he could. Colin had been particularly good at that. This castle looked much the same: fancy tapestries on the walls, interspersed with overly ornate furniture and grandiose portraits of people in historical clothing. John thought he spied a few faces that bore family resemblances to James Moriarty, had Moriarty ever worn ruffled collars and velvet waistcoats. 

“Sir,” said Jeeves, ushering John into an antechamber. It reminded John of the sitting room at Aurora’s estate: a warm rug on the floor, furniture that was more to scale, heavy damask curtains, and a fireplace on the far end, where chairs and a table were already arranged as if for tea. A fire roared merrily away, and John went to it automatically, holding his hands out for warmth. 

“Please wait here,” said Jeeves. “Someone will be with you shortly.” 

John looked over his shoulder. “I’m sorry, could I trouble you—” 

But Jeeves had shut the door, and was gone. John was alone. 

“For nothing at all, never mind me,” muttered John, and turned back to the fire to warm himself up. It didn’t take long. He had just started to wonder if he should go looking for Nola herself when the door opened again, and Jeeves re-entered, carrying a tray laden with plates and things for tea. 

“Mrs Moriarty was concerned you would require nourishment,” he said, and set the tray carefully on the table nearest the fire. 

“That’s nice of her,” said John dryly. “I like a meal before I’m set on fire, you know.” 

“One usually does,” said Jeeves, without so much as a blink, and John wondered what it would take to unnerve the man. Jeeves banked the fire expertly while John examined the tray. Tea, milk, sugar, lemon, several biscuits, toast both dry and buttered, small pots of Marmite and jam, and under a metal dome, an omelet with cheese and peppers and a few potatoes and tomatoes resting on a lettuce leaf. There were even small shakers of salt and pepper, and the strong scent of the eggs hit John and his stomach rolled. He dropped the dome back on the tray and picked up a piece of toast to shove in his mouth before he became sick. 

“I’m assuming she hasn’t poisoned any of it.” 

“Of course not, sir,” said Jeeves, having finished the fire. “Mrs Moriarty much prefers a direct approach.” 

John snorted and sat down on the arm of the nearest chair. “Yeah, I suppose poison is a bit chancy. Maybe I’ve spent a decade building up an immunity to iocane powder.” 

Jeeves blinked, and John thought he saw the butler’s mouth twitch. He counted it as a victory. 

“Have you, sir?” he inquired pleasantly. “If so, I should make a note of it.” 

“What do you think?” 

Jeeves smiled at him – not a pleasant smile, exactly, more like one that he put on for form’s sake – and left the room. 

John kept chewing on the toast. After a slice and a half, he went to look out the window. 

The sun was fully up now, shining on the white-washed sea. The mist was heavy; John couldn’t quite tell where the sea ended and the sky began. He blinked, almost reminded of something, as if he’d seen such a sight before. 

_I don’t know what it was like, for you. I thought…I thought you would be going through what I went through, being apart. The loneliness and the empty nights and the way my brain never quite settled. I thought it would be the same. But it wasn’t, for you. You had Emily. You haven’t forgiven me. I can go away again…_

John shook his head. “Stop it,” he muttered, half to the Sherlock in his head, and half to himself, and then squinted out of the window again. But the view didn’t change, except to grow lighter as the sun rose, and finally John left the window and returned to the chairs by the fire. He sat down, despite his skin itching and his muscles twitching with anticipation, and he stretched out his legs and folded his hands above his stomach. 

The fire crackled pleasantly. The chair was soft and molded perfectly to his body. The room was warm, and John’s stomach no longer rolled and rebelled. John watched the fire, tried to imagine where Sherlock could be, and slowly closed his eyes in sleep. 

* 

“John,” said Sherlock, somewhere just out of reach. John thought if he could just stretch a little further, he’d be able to touch him, grab hold of Sherlock’s hand as he fell, swing him up safely from the ground which was startlingly close. 

“John,” said Sherlock, and John kept looking, over and over, and felt like he was looking in the same box over and over again.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again thanks to dduane for looking over the Irish in this chapter. Again, I am so sorry for the late posting. If you want to read about my hellish Wednesday, [have at it](http://azriona.livejournal.com/881720.html), and perhaps it will make you laugh. In the meantime, I’ll be quiet and let you have the chapter now.

John was just starting to wake up when the voice interrupted him. 

“You didn’t eat your omelet, Doctor Watson.” 

It took John less than half a second to realize he had slumped to the side of the heavy armchair, that the fire had gone down low, that the curtains on the windows were drawn down, though not closed, because there was still light pouring into the room, though not at an angle that would indicate early morning or late afternoon. Midday, then – he’d been asleep for five or six hours, was John’s guess, and his head felt fuzzy for it, uneven and thick. He pushed himself to sit up and face the person sitting opposite him, her ankles crossed and her hands in her lap. 

“I’m sorry?” He felt about as stupid as he sounded, and his stomach rolled unpleasantly. 

“Your omelet,” repeated Nola Moriarty. “You should know better than to go without food in your condition, Doctor Watson. When was the last time you ate anything substantial?” 

John leaned forward in his chair. “Where’s Sherlock?” 

Nola sighed, and turned to the bell on the table beside her. She rang it, once, and then set it back down. “Alive, I assure you. There will be scones in a moment. You’ll eat them.” 

“Since when is my welfare your concern? Last time we met, you tried to kill me.” 

Nola shrugged. “What’s past is past.” 

The door opened, and the butler entered, carrying a tray of scones and tea and all the usual accompaniments. Nola fussed over it, poured out the tea and the milk, dropped in the sugar and sliced the scones, and John took the opportunity to give her a closer look. 

Six weeks had changed her considerably. John remembered a woman with not a single hair out of place, every article of clothing done just so. A powerful force with a soft edge, and only a fool would take the soft edge as anything but camouflage. But now – Nola Moriarty was dressed well, but without the flair. She wore a simple white shirt, dark slacks, simple dark shoes, and her hair was pulled back in a low ponytail. As if she’d dressed quickly, with care but not concern. John half thought he’d lost weight – her wrists were thin, with too much skin – and there were dark circles under her slightly red eyes. There was a desperate sort of sadness that John didn’t remember seeing previously. 

“Eat your scone,” said Nola, setting it in front of John. His stomach growled and turned, and he reached for it automatically, but waited until Nola had smiled, and bitten into her own scone, before he began to eat. 

“Sherlock,” said John, after he’d eaten half the scone. It probably hadn’t helped his position any, but he was too hungry to care. 

“What do you know of chemical burns, Doctor Watson?” asked Nola Moriarty, and John’s skin grew cold. 

“Is Sherlock—” 

Nola waved. “He’s quite well, I assure you. Chemical burns, Doctor.” 

“I’ve seen my share,” said John cautiously. “Is he here?” 

“I suppose you’ve done research into the lasting effects of asphyxiation,” mused Nola. “Your daughter – did she suffer any ill effects? Is she quite well?” 

“You don’t get to talk about Emily,” snapped John, and he nearly pushed away from the table before Nola spoke again. 

“I’m sorry, I – forgive me.” 

John looked at her, half standing in her chair, and slowly sat back down again. Nola’s hands shook as she picked up her cup of tea and attempted to look collected. 

“I can’t make up my mind about you,” said John, low. “Either you’re the cruelest piece of work I’ve seen, or the most pitiful.” 

Nola’s hands continued to shake, but there wasn’t the hint of a tremor in her voice. “Asphyxiation, Doctor Watson.” 

John exhaled slowly. “In theory, yes. A person can suffer from brain damage both temporary and long-term. In some cases, the damage is irreversible.” A small glimmer of a thought occurred to him. “Are you telling me that—” 

“Why are you here, Doctor Watson?” Nola interrupted him. “I know Sherlock Holmes intends to see me dead. I’m curious about your own motivations. Do you want to kill me as well?” 

“I’d sleep better at night.” 

“I’m sure you would. It’s not as though there is anyone left to take my place – only a dozen little pups scattered, ready to fight for the scraps. Your mate has seen to that. None of them will have any sort of power for a decade, by which time you’ll both be far too old and settled to think of hunting them down. Someone else’s prey, I imagine.” 

John didn’t say anything; he wasn’t sure what to say. 

“He was here,” said Nola. “Now he is not.” 

John took a long breath. “Where is he?” 

“Let’s play a game,” said Nola. “I will answer one of your questions if you answer one of mine. How does it feel to have been abandoned by Sherlock Holmes not once, but twice?” 

John exhaled slowly. “I wasn’t abandoned. I saw the rose gardens in Spain. Did you know that the town still speaks well of you? They don’t know what you’ve become.” 

Nola barely blinked. “Delusional idiots, the lot of them. He nearly cheated on you in Dublin.” 

“I know.” 

Nola raised an eyebrow. “So you’ve forgiven him, then?” 

“No,” snapped John. He stood. “Do you know where he is?” 

“Why would I?” Nola peered at him. “Does he know?” 

“Of course not,” said John abruptly, and turned to the fire, which crackled merrily behind the grate. “He left a week after the fire. I haven’t seen him since. I only just found out myself.” 

Silence, for a moment. John half thought Nola didn’t believe him, and he didn’t care one way or the other. Her words floated in his mind: Sherlock, leaving him pregnant twice – maybe he really had known. Subconsciously, anyway. There were stories, weren’t there, about people who knew the moment of conception, simply knew that a baby existed now where one had not five minutes before. 

John hadn’t ever really believed the tales, even having spoken to the omegas and betas who’d experienced it. It had always seemed too incredible, especially after his own reproductive history. 

Then again…Sherlock had known, in that split second before he’d jumped. Before John knew, even, Sherlock had known. 

“I used to think Sherlock Holmes and I were alike, you know,” said Nola into the silence. “Birthparents died in childbirth. Raised by a succession of nannies and tutors. Years of university without a degree. Our parents wanting different things for our careers…” 

“Is that why you tried to kill us the way Mario and Diego died?” asked John into the fire. “Because he had what was taken from you?” 

“I both created and destroyed everything I have ever loved,” said Nola sharply, which was not an answer in the slightest. 

John turned from the fire to face her. “Sherlock didn’t create me.” 

“I didn’t create Mario. But then, I didn’t love him, either. That was my mistake, Doctor Watson. I didn’t love Mario. I failed to realize that Sherlock does, in fact, love you.” 

It took several tries before John was able to swallow. “Did, you mean.” 

Nola’s gaze on him was solid and assessing. John waited, standing straight and still, the heat from the fire on his backside. He could see Nola Moriarty thinking, assessing, deciding, and he wondered what precisely she saw when she looked at him. 

At long last, she came to a decision, and stood up. “Come with me.” 

He followed her through the castle, their footsteps echoing on the stone floor. John’s heart pounded as they climbed the wide staircases, up into the higher levels. 

Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. 

John’s head ran with thoughts and plans. Kiss him. Hit him. Shout at him. Grab his hand and press it to his stomach, without saying a word. Stand and let Sherlock throw his accusations and apologies and wait until he was done, and then walk out of the room to see if he would follow. 

Nola opened a door and pushed into a room. John’s thoughts swam; whatever he did when he saw Sherlock again, he didn’t want an audience. He stood in the hall for a moment, and took a deep breath to settle himself, before stepping inside. 

The room was bright and pleasant, with cheerful classical music playing softly in the background. A nurse sat by a hospital bed, reading a book in crisp Spanish tones, and when John entered, she glanced at him and then continued her reading. The monitors blinked beside the bed, showing a low blood pressure, a slow heartbeat, and nearly no brain activity. 

John took all of this in before realizing that the body in the bed did not belong to Sherlock – was in fact a man several years older, almost unrecognizable, though John thought he’d seen someone like him before. His skin was darker than Sherlock’s, even in the places where the burns had faded to a deep red. He looked weed-thin, but with loose skin, and the muscles in his legs and arms had an underused appearance, as if he’d been bedridden for a very long time before what was obviously a final illness. 

John took another step forward, and then another, as every medical instinct instantly snapped into place, and when he reached the end of the bed, John lifted the charts hanging there and began to read. 

“He wakes, sometimes, never speaks – has never spoken since he was three,” said Nola. “His vocal chords were damaged in the explosion.” 

“Diego,” said John. And he glanced at the man again, and recognized him now. Had James Moriarty lived forty years in a bed, he would have looked like this. 

“Yes.” 

“He lived.” 

“If you call this living,” said Nola, with a bitter laugh. 

John replaced the chart, and stepped up to Diego Moriarty. The nurse continued to read as he set his fingers on Diego’s wrist for his pulse, and then moved to open his eyes and peer inside, his fingers gentle on Diego’s smooth and fragile skin. The nurse handed him a stethoscope without missing a beat, and John took it without a word, and listened. 

It was faint, and John had to close his eyes and listen, carefully, for the soft whisper of a heartbeat. 

When he was done, he coiled the stethoscope and set it on the bed next to Diego, and turned to Nola. 

“He’s dying. It’s not a coma, just a very deep sleep. He hasn’t the energy to stay awake any longer. He may not last the night.” 

Nola closed her eyes briefly. “I know.” 

John glanced at Diego again, and thought of the ruins in the rose gardens overlooking the Spanish sea. “He’s been like this for forty years?” 

“No,” said Nola shortly, and pushed away from the window. “You may go anywhere within the grounds, Doctor Watson. But you are not allowed to leave.” 

John frowned. “Wait a minute—” 

“Toph will show you to your rooms,” continued Nola, and John saw the young man step through the door. 

“So I’m your prisoner, is that it? Going to lock me in a dungeon?” 

“Don’t be silly, Doctor Watson. Most of the dungeons have long since been converted to wine cellars. You came of your own free will – wasn’t that kind of you? And seeing as how I find a doctor’s presence to be infinitely valuable to me, I would do well to keep you close.” 

“Where’s Sherlock?” 

“Toph,” said Nola, “the blue rooms, please. Quick as you like.” She moved back to Diego’s bed, and picked up her son’s hand. “I do so hope you’ll be comfortable, Doctor Watson. There’s a rather good little library in your room; perhaps you’ll find some intriguing reading material.” 

John felt Toph pulling on his arm, but he didn’t want to leave without an answer. “Was he ever here at all? Or were you only telling me tales to put me off my guard?” John sucked in a breath. “Is he still here? Don’t tell him.” 

Nola glanced up at him, questioning. 

“Don’t tell him about—” John rested his hands briefly on his stomach. “That’s mine. It’s not yours.” 

“As you wish,” said Nola, and John let Toph pull him from the room. 

Toph seemed skittish as they walked the halls across the castle. John couldn’t have cared less. He was too busy trying to remember the turns and the markers, in what he realized was probably a fruitless attempt to create an escape path. He had a very good idea that Nola, despite her dying son, had not actually let her attention to details relax. 

“Here’s your quarters, Doctor Watson,” said Toph, almost apologetically, when they arrived. The blue rooms were aptly named: blue wall-to-wall carpet, blue-and-grey striped wallpaper, a deep blue duvet on the bed. John stood on the threshold for a moment before stepping inside; he half expected to hear the clang of a heavy cellblock door slam shut the moment he went in, but instead Toph followed him and proceeded to point out the room’s features – the fireplace, the en suite, the view of the sea, the buttons that would call servants, who could bring tea or cake or sandwiches so that he could eat at the little table and chairs by the windows. 

There were even bookshelves, with a selection of books in multiple languages. John recognized some of the titles – fanciful fiction, historical treatises, a few on general science and business and history. There was a desk with paper and pens, and in the wardrobe, clothing of various sizes, all of which were at John’s disposal, should he want them. 

“Never thought a criminal mastermind would have guest rooms,” John remarked, looking out the window. 

“Mrs Moriarty isn’t a criminal mastermind,” Toph blurted out, almost defensively, and then he blushed bright red. “I mean…” 

“Oh, go on,” said John. “What is she, if not a criminal mastermind?” 

“She’s…” Toph searched for a word. “She’s Mrs Moriarty. She just…is.” 

“So roughing up anonymous men and threatening their daughters is all in a day’s work, is it?” 

Toph’s mouth opened and closed for a moment, and then he straightened his shoulders. “Ring the bell if you want sandwiches.” 

Toph slipped from the room, closing the door behind him. John waited, and after a moment heard the telltale sound of a key in a lock. Not quite the clang of a cellblock door, but loud enough in the quiet room. 

John examined every inch of the walls, the floor, and the furniture, as soon as he was sure Toph no longer stood on the other side of the door. He didn’t think he’d find a secret entrance, but he couldn’t help himself. He was too full of nervous energy to sit still now, and it was a good hour before he had finished examining the room. He was hardly an expert, but he didn’t think there were even any cameras or hidden microphones in the room – except for the lock on the outside of the door, John could easily have been in a very pleasant, very luxurious guest room. 

John ran his hands over the books idly and wondered what kind of a woman kept a guest room with a library – and beyond that, what kind of woman would then quite graciously feed a man she’d once tried to kill, before depositing him in her guest room as though he were just another visitor for the weekend. He glanced at the titles: some of them known, some of them unknown, a good few that weren’t even in English, and then his fingers rested on the little blue book with the spine so broken that he couldn’t read the words. 

John didn’t believe in the paranormal; he never put much stock in being able to sense anything purely by touch. But something made him pull the book out from the shelf, and when he looked at the title ( _Alphas and Their Daughters_ ) above the photograph of a man holding the hand of a small girl, he half wondered if there hadn’t been something to the stories after all, because he recognized it. 

_Perhaps you’ll find some intriguing reading material_ , Nola Moriarty had said, and John opened the book, already expecting to see the familiar writing inside. 

The pages were soft, worn at the edges from countless readings. Various passages were underlined and highlighted throughout, with notations along the side in Sherlock’s hand. Some made no sense whatsoever: “Afternoon apple”, or “strop re: lack of bread”. Others, John almost recognized: the order of Emily’s bedtime routine, the exact specifications for how Emily liked her beans and toast. A phone number John thought might have been the school. 

Every page was marked; it was clear that Sherlock had read the book cover to cover, multiple times, which was fairly surprising in that John couldn’t recall seeing Sherlock read any book more than once, if even that – let alone this one. He wasn’t even sure how he recognized it at all. The book itself curled slightly in John’s hands, as if it’d been kept in a pocket for most of its existence, instead of on a shelf. 

John held the book in the palm of his hand, and thought the curve nearly matched Sherlock’s chest. Breast pocket, then. Slim enough that it could stay there, unnoticed, without changing the fall of his coat. 

John glanced at the bed; his back was aching now, in a way he had come to expect in the latter months of his pregnancy with Emily - no doubt this was more the result of sleeping for several hours in a chair, and then performing various aerobics looking at every nook and corner of the room. But the bed, as inviting as it looked, also looked clean and fresh, and John felt grubby and dusty. And the en suite was large, with towels that looked as if they’d never been used by anyone. 

John showered, closed his eyes under the spray and let the water rush over him. He shampooed his hair twice, and washed his skin three times, scrubbing until he was nearly pink. 

By the time he finished, steam had filled the en suite; John could barely see the mirror on the far end. He stepped out of the shower and wrapped one of the oversized towels around his waist. He’d left the door to the bedroom closed, and John went to open it, to let out some of the damp air. 

There was someone in the room, his back to John, setting something out on the table by the window. John’s hand tightened on the doorknob, as he reached with the other for the nearest heavy object. Stupid stupid stupid, showering without keeping some kind of weapon close to hand. 

And then the person spoke: Dougal. 

“Deliveryman, that’s what I am now. No bloody better than a servant. Fetch me this, fetch him that. This ain’t what I signed up for.” 

“Hoping for a life of murder and mayhem?” asked John dryly, and spotted the pokers by the side of the fireplace. Two long strides away. But Dougal was over by the window, and John thought he was a sight quicker. 

“Business man, me,” said Dougal, and he straightened and turned to John. “What you said to Toph – that wasn’t on, mate. You don’t know anything about Nola Moriarty, so you’d best keep your mouth shut about what she does.” 

“I know she tried to kill my family,” said John. “I think that’s enough to be going on with.” 

“And what’d you do to deserve it? Because I can tell you, it weren’t nothing. You should see the number of blokes who come sidling in, asking her to pop off this one, or pop off that one. Why, she asks ‘em. He insulted me, he insulted my wife, he cut me off on the highway and I lost control of my car and crashed and killed my dog. As if those are good reasons to kill someone. She laughs and kicks ‘em out on their arses. But if you’re screwed over by the government, you’re in a corner of someone else’s making and you can’t see your way out without dying yourself – she’ll help you then. She’ll get you set up in a new life, a new chance. Everyone deserves a second chance, Doctor Watson. She makes sure you get it.” 

John was quiet for a moment. “And what was your second chance, Dougal?” 

“I’m here, ain’t I?” said Dougal. He picked up the tray, empty now, and tucked it under his arm. “Toph’s impressionable, Doctor Watson, and he likes you. Stop telling him he’s chosen the side of evil. The world isn’t that cut and dried. You oughtter know that much, if you know anything at all.” 

“Bit hard to see the shades of grey when you’re watching someone threaten to kill your daughter,” said John mildly. 

Dougal didn’t blink. “Doesn’t mean they’re not there.” 

John waited until Dougal was nearly gone. “Do you always lock guests in their quarters, when they’re allowed access to anywhere they like?” 

Dougal paused at the door, and looked back at John. “Only some of them, Doctor Watson. The ones what don’t know where they’re not wanted.” 

The door closed behind Dougal, and John waited for the telltale click of the lock. 

It never came. 

A trap. It had to be a trap. John would never quite believe that Dougal could possibly have forgotten to lock the door, not after that exchange of words. But even so… 

Only some of them. 

John half thought he knew who Dougal had meant. 

John sprang to action. Pants, trousers, socks, shirt – all new, none of it his, not quite the right fit but close enough that he wouldn’t be impeded by them. He tugged on his shoes and, after a quick glance around the room, took up the poker from the fireplace. It was heavy and had a sharp point, which made it a fairly decent choice for a weapon, if not something he was entirely certain how to use. But Toph had confiscated his Sig, and John doubted a search for it would be anything but a waste of time. 

The hallway was empty when John opened the door. He wondered, briefly, why no one was keeping a guard on him, and then shoved the thought away, because he didn’t much care, either. 

_Going to lock me in the dungeons?_

_Don’t be silly, Doctor Watson. Most of the dungeons have long since been converted to wine cellars._

John walked as quietly as he was able, kept to the edge of the halls, and pressed the poker to his side. He didn’t entirely trust that Nola Moriarty spoke the truth when she said he’d be allowed access to the castle. No one he’d seen had worn any kind of livery; perhaps he’d be mistaken as another servant, if he were spotted, though John thought that was unlikely. Worth a try, anyway. But John saw no one as he went down the staircases, a never-ending circle of steps and stone. He thought he caught a glimpse of the butler, somewhere on the ground floor, and John paused, listening to the thread of conversation from one of the sitting rooms off the main foyer. 

“…shan’t be long now. D’ye suppose…?” 

“No use in supposing things that don’t matter, Eileen.” 

“I know, but—” 

Diego, John thought. He agreed, if it was. It wasn’t important. Or perhaps it was – Sherlock would have known. Sherlock would have heard just that much and been able to tell the complete life stories of the speakers, including what they’d had for breakfast; John was never quite that good. He picked up his pace and kept moving down, trying to stay out of view. 

The cellar was dark and cool; John half imagined a faint drip-drip of falling water, a sort of spooky background noise, and brushed the thoughts away as overly fanciful. When the stairs finally stopped, some three levels below the ground floor, John found himself in what was undoubtedly the wine cellar. Racks of bottles lined the walls, dusty green and ruby jewels that might have been sitting for years waiting to be consumed. There were empty places along the racks, and some bottles that showed signs of having been examined for possible use – but more telling was the faint hint of a path winding its way through the racks, and John followed it until he could no longer see the stairs. 

The path led to a heavy wooden door. It had several padlocks on it, a locking cat-flap near the base, and a sliding window at head-level, which was closed. John slid open the window, and looked through the smoky glass. His breath caught. 

There was Sherlock, sitting on a cot on the far end of the room, his back against the wall, his knees drawn up under his chin. He’d wrapped his arms around his legs to pull them closer, and his eyes were closed. John saw his jaw twitch; he’d heard the window open, no doubt, but refused to give anyone the benefit of his gaze. 

John couldn’t tell through the glass and in the dim light, but it looked as though Sherlock was thinner than he remembered, and he thought he saw a bruise under one eye. 

It was the bruise that did it, that pushed John back from the door, breathing heavily. He almost couldn’t see straight; it took a moment before he saw that the locks were easily disabled from his side. Slide, twist, turn the key, kick the stand, and John shoved his shoulder up against the heavy door, less because he needed his own weight to push it open and more because he wanted to push something, to shove up against the rising anger that the bruise on Sherlock’s face caused. 

Silly, almost. He wasn’t the alpha. But Sherlock was no less his than he was Sherlock’s, and Sherlock was hurt. 

Sherlock’s head snapped up when John entered, and his eyes flew open. “John. What are you doing here?” 

“Sightseeing,” said John, and he crossed the room in three strides. 

Sherlock’s face turned stony. “ _Sightseeing_?” 

“Rescuing you, you great idiot! What the _hell_ did they do to you?” growled John, and he fell on the cot beside Sherlock and reached for the bruise. He brushed it lightly with his thumb, pushed his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, and Sherlock’s hand automatically flew up and took him by the wrist. 

“You shouldn’t be here – you’re not meant to _be_ here.” Sherlock’s voice drifted off, and he tightened his hold on John. “John?” 

Sherlock’s nostrils flared slightly, and John froze when he saw how close his wrist was to Sherlock’s nose. 

_Oh, shite._

John held perfectly still, and watched Sherlock breathe in his scent. He let Sherlock press his mouth to John’s wrist, to taste the skin, and John curled his hand around Sherlock’s chilled cheek. 

“You’re pregnant,” said Sherlock, his voice thick and muffled against John’s skin. 

John’s stomach turned. The weight of the words settled on his shoulders in a way that they hadn’t before. Somehow, they mattered now, hearing them from Sherlock’s lips. He let out a gentle laugh. “Should have known you wouldn’t need it spelled out for you.” 

Sherlock reached for him with his other arm, wrapped it around John and pulled him close. John’s head slotted neatly onto Sherlock’s shoulder; he could smell Sherlock’s skin, the mix of dust and sweat and dirt, the underlying musk of an alpha. Of _his_ alpha. He breathed it in, felt it fill his lungs and his stomach and every part of him somehow rolling around the scent and relaxing into it. 

Yes, thought John, before he came to his senses and pushed back against Sherlock, and the scent lingered in his nose even though he held Sherlock at arm’s length. 

“I know you want to go alpha male on me right now, but we don’t have time for this,” said John, low and quickly. “We have to go. _Now_.” 

“I can’t help it,” said Sherlock, half frantic, and he pulled John back again. The two men grappled with each other on the cot, one desperate to hold the other down, responding to a base instinct that he didn’t quite understand; the other just as desperate to pull them both to safety, where they could breathe in peace. The words tumbled out, faster than John could hear them; certainly faster than Sherlock could be thinking them. “Six weeks since your last haircut, just before Emily’s party. Skin flushed, smells of soap and something else – you’ve just showered. Lemon shampoo. Yardley’s soap. Your scent, under that, sugar and hot buttered toast with tea, and there’s something else, too - something fresh and clean. Cold morning frost or the threat of rain.” 

John stilled under Sherlock; the words washed over him, and he felt his heart slowing to their rhythm. Sherlock breathed beside him – what started as a torrent of words had slowed to something gentler, calmer…the jittery, anxious pace now quiet. Sherlock was pressed into John’s side – or maybe it was the other way around. 

“How could I have missed this with Emily?” whispered Sherlock. “How didn’t I know until it was too late?” 

“Scent is slow to change with first children," said John quietly. "There probably wasn't anything to miss." 

"No," said Sherlock. "There was everything to miss." 

John closed his eyes, and felt Sherlock press their foreheads together again. He caught Sherlock’s scent again, under the dirt and the grime, and just that small bit went through him like brandy, intoxicating and warming and entirely welcome. John let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and reached blindly for Sherlock’s hands to grip tightly. Sherlock held tightly back. 

"John, I—" 

"Sherlock," said John. "Do me a favor. Shut up and stop ruining the moment." 

It was nice this way, just the sound of them breathing together, and John let Sherlock’s scent fill him up in all the places he didn’t realize he was empty. He wondered briefly if this was how Sherlock had felt when he was taking the drugs – this calm sort of completion. The comforting sense of not belonging, but being part of something greater. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” said Sherlock, and John sighed. So much for mood. 

“Well, then, I’ll just go and lock the door on my way out,” said John evenly. “And next time you can rescue yourself.” 

“I had a _plan_.” 

“Let me know what it is and I can help.” 

“You can _help_ by going back to England and keeping yourselves safe,” snapped Sherlock, and John snorted. 

“In other words, you _don’t_ have a plan, and I need to behave like a good omega and stay at home with the kids? Nope, sorry, not going to happen.” 

“This is _dangerous_ , John,” hissed Sherlock, and he pushed away. John rolled his eyes. 

“Because ‘dangerous’ always made me go running in the opposite direction, of course. Stop worrying about the baby. The baby is fine and doesn’t care what I’m doing as long as I’m eating a cracker while doing it.” 

“Nola Moriarty is in the castle—” 

“I know. We met.” 

Sherlock stared at him. “You….you _idiot_.” 

John stared at him. “Excuse me?” 

But Sherlock pulled away, and began to pace the room. “I knew you weren’t the cleverest of men, John, but I never thought you would deliberately walk into what is unmistakably a _trap_. I know you persist in the delusion that Sebastian Moran wouldn’t have harmed a hair on Emily’s head, but do you not realize that Nola Moriarty wants you _dead_? She’d kill you without blinking and drink tea beside your cooling body, pregnant or not. And you’re sitting there telling me that you walked in here knowing full well that she was waiting for you?” 

“I walked in here because you were waiting, Sherlock,” said John coolly. “I don’t give a bloody fuck about Nola Moriarty. Just you.” 

“You risked your life and the baby’s life—” 

“And I’d do it again.” 

“For what? For me?” 

“For both of you!” shouted John. “I’m not going to let you go through with whatever fool scheme you’ve planned on your own, you great eejit, not without me to watch your back and make sure you get out of it alive! Because I’m not going to let another kid miss out on having you there to watch their first steps and first words and first everythings. Not again. This kid _needs_ you, Sherlock. Emily needs you. They probably need you more than I do even. And I see you looking at Emily and wondering how the hell she even exists, and I don’t want you to have to do that again. I want you to _know_ how your child exists and why they do what they do when they do it. You need to be there this time, Sherlock. You can’t miss any of it. I don’t want you to have to work for their forgiveness, too.” 

Sherlock stopped pacing. He turned to look at John. “What makes you think Emily didn’t forgive me long ago? Or even thought that such a thing was necessary? You have always been obsessed with this idea.” 

“Because it’s important.” 

“To you. Not to Emily. At any rate, if there was any need for her to forgive me, she did so long ago.” Sherlock raised his hand. “I won’t deny I had to earn her trust. But for Emily, there was never any transgression on my part to forgive.” 

“You abandoned her,” said John. 

“What’s really bothering you,” said Sherlock, stepping closer, “is that _you_ still have to forgive me.” 

“I did that,” snapped John. 

“Liar. You’ve been so focused on _Emily_ that you forgot to pay attention to whether or not you even wanted me.” 

Everything was wrong – the entire conversation, the entire rescue, had gone hopelessly out of control. John reeled back from Sherlock, shaking his head. “No,” he said, and laughed. “I can’t…you honestly think I don’t want you? You really think…fine.” 

John pushed past Sherlock, through the door and into the wine cellar. He heard Sherlock follow him. “I came _looking_ for you, you great berk. _You_. Not Emily’s father, not this baby’s father. I went to Spain and Dublin looking for you, and you go on as if I’m deliberately putting myself at risk for nothing more than a _lark_. Fuck you, Sherlock Holmes.” 

There was a noise at the top of the stairs – a door opening and closing, and John was yanked off the path and behind one of the racks of wine bottles. Sherlock held tightly to his arm, and placed his finger over his lips, indicating quiet. 

John’s heart beat heavily, and he listened as someone descended the stairwell. 

“Doctor Watson,” called a voice, echoing slightly. It took John a moment to place it: the butler. “If you and Mr Holmes have quite finished with your…discussion, we require your assistance upstairs. It’s Diego. He’s seizing.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Sherlock sings to Emily in the bath can be heard [here](http://youtu.be/dF2i6RQUqAE).

It was a typical day in early January.  There was nothing especially unusual about it.  There was every reason for it to blend in with the rest of the typical days, to be remembered not by itself but as part of the whole of their first few months as a family. 

 

Perhaps that’s what made it special: because it was true, because they were, because it was a typical day, and it passed as such without them even noticing.

 

Sherlock woke to the sound of the shower running.  It was a pleasant way to wake, really, except that it meant that John was awake and not in the bed with him.

 

There was, however, another body in the bed.  Sherlock saw the dark curls on John’s pillow and watched his daughter sleep.  He wondered how long she’d been there; she hadn’t been in the bed when he’d fallen asleep, and he didn’t remember her joining them. 

 

Sherlock would have been content to watch her sleep, to count the breaths and try to determine how long she’d been in REM and how much longer she might stay there, but for the quiet beep from the kitchen.  His mobile with an incoming text – Lestrade, perhaps, Sherlock thought hopefully, and thoughts of watching Emily sleep were abandoned.  Quietly, trying to jostle the bed as little as possible, he slipped out and padded into the kitchen.

 

Seven in the morning – four hours sleep then, not terrible.  The shower shut off, Sherlock scrolled through his mobile for his messages, and after a few minutes, John joined him in the kitchen, skin still faintly damp under his robe.

 

“Nightmare,” said John, by way of explaining Emily, and Sherlock nodded absently.

 

“The trees again?” he asked, and John nodded.

 

“Text from Lestrade,” said Sherlock.  “Two bodies found along the Thames this morning.”

 

“Cheerful start to the day, thanks,” said John, and reached across Sherlock to flick the kettle on.  “I’ve only got a half-day today.”

 

“Post holiday stomach aches,” said Sherlock dismissively.  “A case of the flu for variety, if you’re lucky.”

 

“I’m not calling in sick, Sherlock,” said John as he set up the mugs of tea.  “Do you have time to help me with Emily before you solve Lestrade’s murders for him?”

 

A cry from the bedroom.  Sherlock dropped his mobile on the counter and left John to start the toast.

 

Emily sat up in their bed, rubbing her eyes with one hand and clutching Elfin with the other.  There was a damp patch visible on her stomach, peeking out from under the covers, and Sherlock stifled the sigh.

 

“Good morning, Emily,” he said gravely.  “Do you need to use the lavatory?”  Evidence to the contrary, Sherlock thought, but John was insistent on following the routine.

 

“No,” said Emily, and Sherlock gave her points for rationality.

 

“I thought not.”

 

“Try anyway!” called John from the kitchen.

 

Emily reached up for Sherlock, and he picked her up.  She wrapped her arms around his neck and rested her head on his shoulder, legs around his torso, in a hold that would have been comfortable had it not been for the damp patch on her midsection, now transferred to his chest.  There was a sharp, somewhat acrid smell as well, and though Sherlock was well-used to such scents in the line of chemistry, it still made his nose wrinkle. 

 

“School today,” said Sherlock, and he felt Emily’s arms tighten around his neck.  He walked her into the kitchen; John was already setting the table with toast and jam and milk.  “Unless you’d rather go to the river with me.  Far more interesting than colored blocks and dinosaurs, I assure you.”

 

“No,” said John, without looking up.

 

“Dine’saurs,” said Emily.

 

Sherlock shook his head.  “School is a terrible influence on you, Emily,” he told his daughter, and carried her up the stairs to change into something less wet.

 

“Loo!” shouted John, and they both ignored him.

 

Breakfast, tea and toast and yoghurt, Emily scurrying to find her book and stuffed things for show-and-tell.  Sherlock glancing at his watch with veiled impatience while reminding Emily to drink her milk, John gulping down his tea and glaring at Sherlock who did not drink or eat anything at all.  Everything dumped unceremoniously into the sink (“We’ll do the washing up later.”  “Don’t be silly, John, Mrs H can do it.”  “Gran says she’s not our housekeeper.” “She’s not.”  “Then why—?”  “Because she loves us and gave up on your Papa long ago.”), coats and scarves and hats located and adorned. 

 

“Have a good day at school, Emily,” said John, leaning over to give the little girl a kiss, and Sherlock frowned.

 

“I thought you were taking her.”

 

John straightened.  “I’m already running late—”

 

“The clinic is closer to the school than the river—”

 

“Sherlock, we agreed last night.”

 

“Jane—”

 

“She’s got an early class on Mondays, and Mrs H won’t be home from Cornwall until this afternoon.”

 

A small hand slipped into Sherlock’s, the warmth not quite perceptible through the leather glove, but the size immediately recognizable.  Sherlock glanced down at Emily, looking up at him with wide blue eyes.

 

Sherlock sigh and rolled his eyes – more a mocking of impatience than anything else, and held Emily’s hand tightly in his.  “I could take her to the river anyway.”

 

“But you won’t,” said John confidently, and leaned in for a kiss.  A peck, barely worth bothering about, really, thought Sherlock, who felt the rub of daily schedules already weighing on his shoulders.  He also felt Emily’s glare, even if he didn’t see it. 

 

As soon as John had set off in a cab, Sherlock turned to Emily.  “I _could_ take you to the river.  For a few hours, at least.  There’s at least two bodies which would be an excellent start to your education in anatomy.”

 

“What’s antantomy?” asked Emily, curiously.

 

“ _Anatomy_ , Emily.  It’s the bodily structure of an organism: in this case, the human mammal.”

 

“Head, nose, eyes, ears,” parroted Emily.

 

“Yes, but with more detail, and focusing on the bits inside of you.  Heart, lungs, intestines, liver.”

 

Emily considered this.  “I learn antantomy at school.”

 

“You are learning the _basics_ ; I’m offering you an advanced course.  There’s a fascinating chemical reaction when the fatty tissue under the skin is immersed in water for weeks or months at a time; it will actually turn into a soap-like substance.  It would be a shame to miss this opportunity.”

 

Emily looked at him as if she didn’t quite believe him.  “School,” she said firmly.

 

“Boring.”

 

“ _School_.”

 

Sherlock sighed, and perhaps it was the forced week with his mother over the holidays that brought the memory to surface: being six, and terribly insistent on going to school, despite the chicken pox that had erupted across his face.  As far as he’d been concerned, he was perfectly well, no fever or cough or anything other than the rather annoying itch and the persistent rash.  The nannies had won that particular round.

 

But Sherlock remembered the stubborn, cross feeling, when he hadn’t been allowed to go where he really wanted, and how it had persisted and dogged him until he’d been big enough to fend for himself. 

 

Emily might have inherited the same trait.

 

“A formal education does have some advantages, I suppose,” conceded Sherlock, somewhat grudgingly.  “Although you’ve already learned the basics of anatomy, I fail to see why you should be so insistent on passing up this opportunity to further your studies.”

 

But Emily shook her head.  “Trevor’s cast is off and I want to see his arm all withered and yucky.”

 

  1.   Inheritance from John shining through, there.  Sherlock could well appreciate the desire to see a withered limb.  Perhaps not more so than a bloated body, but Emily was young. There was still time.  Someone else would surely drown before she was too old.  And it did still count as an anatomy lesson, if one that focused more on atrophy than molecular disintegration.



 

“In that case,” said Sherlock, “pay close attention to the condition of his skin, Emily.  There are some vital differences between skin maceration, which is the pimpling of skin that has been underwater for multiple weeks or months, and the scaly dryness that is typical of skin kept under the heavy gauntlet of a cast.”

 

Emily took his hand and pulled him gently down the road toward the park, and together, they headed off in a scholarly direction.

 

*

 

“Nice holiday?” asked Gregory Lestrade as Sherlock examined the body at his feet.

 

“The killer is at least six feet tall, alpha, male, very possibly working in the construction trade,” said Sherlock by way of response.  He sat back on his haunches and frowned at the body. “It’s rather difficult to determine anything else.  The body’s been submerged for three days, at least.”

 

Lestrade sighed.  “When’s John off work again?”

 

Sherlock flashed a hard glare at Lestrade.  “Where’s the other one?”

 

Lestrade jerked his head behind him; Sherlock could just see the pile of cloth some twenty feet away, closer to the water line. 

 

“Tide’s coming in, you should have started me there.  The water will wash away evidence.”

 

Sherlock rose and trudged through the mud toward the body; Lestrade trailed behind.  His mind was busily filing the information about the first victim away, but without new information about the old one, he couldn’t help but hear Lestrade prattle behind him.

 

“Lovely holiday, thanks, Greg.  How was yours?  Just fine, thanks for asking.  How’s the mate and offspring?  Splendid, Emily was really keen on that rolling toy contraption you found, played with it incessantly.”

 

“You’re as bad as Anderson,” said Sherlock, irritable.  Emily _had_ been fascinated with the rolling toy contraption, far more than she had the junior chemistry set he’d purchased for her.  (Though she’d enjoyed making the windows rattle with the explosions once she’d had her fill of rolling three days later.)

 

Sherlock bent over the new body – not so much a body as a gelatinous mass now.  Far more than three days underwater, here.  Sherlock cursed to himself.

 

“Liked my toy better than yours?” asked Lestrade cheekily, and Sherlock straightened, snapping the latex gloves off his hands.

 

“You’re looking for two killers,” he said sharply.  “That is, one master and one apprentice.  Perhaps an alpha/omega pair – the alpha’s an old hand at this but the apprentice is new.  Look at the knots around the victim’s ankles.” 

 

Lestrade frowned.  “What knots?”

 

“Exactly,” said Sherlock.  He left Lestrade peering at what might have been ankles on the body, and went up to the banks, wondering what time it was, and when John would finally be free of the mundane requirements of a clinic after New Year’s.

 

He found John waiting for him on the steps.  Sherlock paused, and broke into a grin.

 

“Old times,” said John, glancing out at the grey and damp debris left at low tide.  He looked at Sherlock again and smiled.

 

Joy expanded at an exponential rate; Sherlock half thought it poured out of every pore and trickled onto the sand below.  “Quite.  Want to see some more?”

 

“God, yes,” said John, and followed him back down onto the sand.

 

*

 

The knots were perfectly clear to read, even to Lestrade, once he found them (and was done being sick over them; Sherlock noted the other alpha’s reaction to the admittedly disgusting image of thick rope sunk into bloated flesh, and also that if John was sympathetic to Lestrade’s illness, he wasn’t overly concerned either).  It was a peculiar rope and a peculiar knot; the combination of the two led to a particular outdoor supply store on the west side of the city, and from there to a particular Boy Scout troop, and from _there_ to the actual pair of murderers.  It was all tied up neatly just as the sun was setting, and Sherlock managed to deflect Lestrade’s insistence on paperwork without so much as a backward glance.

 

“Bollocks,” said John, looking at his watch as Sherlock hailed a taxi.  “We’ll miss tea with Emily.”

 

_Emily_.  Sherlock had nearly forgotten.  The taxi pulled to a stop beside him, and Sherlock opened the door automatically for John, frowning.

 

“I rang Jane,” added John as he climbed into the taxi.  “She collected her from school hours ago.”

 

“Not what I was thinking,” said Sherlock.

 

“Oh?”

 

Sherlock climbed in after him.  “I should have grabbed a length of rope.  Emily might want to learn to tie the knots we saw today.”

 

John laughed.  “I think maybe not for a few years yet.”

 

“You have no faith in our daughter’s dexterity, John,” scolded Sherlock. 

 

“I actually have quite a bit of faith.  It’s just I’d rather she not tie me to the chair anytime soon.”

 

“Mmm.”  The words, innocent enough, brought lovely images to Sherlock’s mind.  He hadn’t ever quite gone for that sort of game in the bedroom – but the idea of John at his mercy – _his_ , and not Emily’s – was tempting. 

 

The sun was set now; dusk was growing darker by the moment.  Sherlock could barely make out the colors of John’s coat and scarf.  The passing lights danced on his hair as the taxi zoomed along into the city.  They were alone, or as alone as they’d been in months.  Years, really, and Sherlock had the very good idea that if he were to kiss John, right then, John wouldn’t resist, would maybe push back just enough to show he was interested, and they’d heat up the windows and forget about everything that had happened and would happen that day so far.

 

Sherlock turned to John, about to make good on his plans.  John was half smiling, looking down at his mobile.  The light reflected on his face, silvery and pale, the color bleached from his face.  He looked cold, separate, somewhere far away.  Sherlock remembered John, lying prone on the hospital bed in the coma, and his heart caught somewhere in his throat. 

 

John looked up, still smiling, and Sherlock wondered what John saw on his face, because John’s expression shifted to one of confused concern.

 

“You all right?”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock managed to say.

 

“Marmite sandwiches for tea,” said John, lifting his mobile to show Sherlock the text from Jane.  Sherlock didn’t particularly care about the text.  Of course there were marmite sandwiches for tea; there were always marmite sandwiches when Jane was in charge of tea, because Jane greatly disliked their stovetop and Emily greatly liked marmite sandwiches.

 

“Obviously,” was all Sherlock said.

 

“So I think Chinese, don’t you?” said John.

 

“There aren’t any good Chinese restaurants near Baker Street any more, John.”

 

John turned away, back to his mobile, back to where his face was hidden in the shadows.  “Right,” he said.  “Just an idea.”

 

_Stupid_ , thought Sherlock.   _Fix this_.

 

“There are in Kensington, though,” he offered, tentatively, and John looked over at him and smiled.

 

Sherlock leaned forward and tapped on the glass, and ten minutes later, they found themselves standing on the pavement, outside a nearly perfect Chinese restaurant.

 

“You never did explain _why_ it’s the lower third of the door handle,” said John as Sherlock led them inside.

 

“Must keep some of the mystery,” said Sherlock.  “Besides, if I told you, you’d put it in your blog, and then everyone would know, and we’d never get a table again.”

 

“I don’t put everything in my blog, you know.”

 

“Oh, I know.  You always leave out the most interesting bits.  You’re going to completely ignore the information about the effects of water on rope and skin, aren’t you?  And that information was absolutely vital to determining which of the scout leaders was the culprit.”

 

“No one really wants to know that sort of detail, Sherlock.”

 

“Without that sort of detail you’re pandering to an ill-informed public, John.”

 

“I’m keeping them from losing their lunches, more like.”

 

Sherlock remembered Lestrade’s particular shade of green, and grinned when he saw a similar shade on the jade cat on the wall.  He grinned wider when he looked at the menu.

 

“So, for starters,” said Sherlock.  “Green jade style with seafood, or shredded pork?”

 

*

 

The weather was surprisingly mild when they left the restaurant, comfortably full of rice, chicken, and fried pork.  John stopped on the pavement, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply.  Sherlock sniffed the air carefully, and wasn’t sure why John bothered.

 

“Rain,” said John, and he opened his eyes and smiled at Sherlock.  He reached out with one hand, and Sherlock took it without thinking.  “Too warm for snow, but I can smell the precipitation, can’t you?”

 

“Of course,” lied Sherlock.  All he could smell was the garlic from the restaurant, and John, who smelled delicious.

 

He stepped forward, and wrapped one hand around John’s neck, pulling him in for a kiss.  John’s lips were still warm, still tasted like soy and ginger and peppers, the flavors providing a particular heat of their own.  Not a _heat_ , of course, nothing like, but just thinking about the added warmth did something to Sherlock, and he pressed close against John, felt John’s arms rest around his waist, felt John expand under him, burrow his warmth into him, and if the rain started to fall while he kissed John, he didn’t notice.

 

The ringing was almost secondary.

 

John pulled away with a pop.  His eyes were glazed, and it took a moment for him to remember why he’d stopped kissing Sherlock in the first place.  “Home,” he said, as the ring tone whistled out a tune again, and John pulled away from Sherlock just enough to pull the phone from his pocket and answer it.  “Hello?”

 

John’s face brightened almost instantly.  Sherlock didn’t need to ask why.  He let his hand slip away from John, and with the release, John stepped out of Sherlock’s embrace, taking his warmth with him.

 

The cars sped by on the road, racing through the rapidly forming puddles with a hiss.

 

“Hello, poppet, how was school today?  Yes, Papa and I are on our way home now, we’ll be there in ten minutes.  Oh, that’s lovely of you, I’m sure Papa would love a marmite sandwich.”

 

Sherlock shuddered, and turned to hail a taxi.  He could feel John grinning at his back.

 

“Oh, really?  Papa said that?”

 

Sherlock wondered what he’d said that was coming back to haunt him.

 

“Well, I’ll be sure to tell him.  See you soon, poppet.”

 

John waited until the taxi was on its way before he spoke.

 

“So.  Emily apparently told her class that people turn into soap when they bathe too often.”

 

Sherlock blinked.

 

“She may have misinterpreted a point I was making about adipocere.”

 

“The entire class refused to wash their hands before lunch.”

 

“Ah.”

 

Sherlock glanced over at John, and was slightly relieved to see that John was trying not to giggle.

 

“Am I banned from the school again?”

 

“I think for the next week, yeah, might be a good idea.”  John shook his head.  “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you did this on purpose.”

 

“ _John_.”

 

Somehow, just saying his name was all it took to break John of his resolve; the giggles came pouring out of him, and John folded over, trying to hold them in.  Sherlock watched him, enjoying the moment for a moment before joining in. 

 

Giggling with John, like two schoolboys having just pulled a prank on their unsuspecting classmates.  Sherlock had never been quite this happy as a schoolboy.  He relished every moment, and reached for John’s hand.  When John took it, Sherlock squeezed his fingers, and was happy to feel John’s grip tighten in response.

 

They were still giggling as they entered the flat, and found Emily crawling with Jane on the floor, roaring.  Emily came running up to John first, and roared at him, her fingers curled as if claws.

 

“Hello, poppet,” said John, and bent over to give her a kiss.

 

“Not poppet.  _Tiger_ ,” said Emily.  “Roar.”

 

“She learned the baby tiger song at school today,” said Jane from under the table. 

 

“Any problems this afternoon?”

 

“Only that Tiger Emily has me trapped under the table and won’t let me come out.”

 

“Bad tiger,” explained Emily.  “She has soapy hands.”

 

John gave Sherlock a pointed look.  Sherlock reached down for Emily and scooped her up. 

 

“Emily,” he said, “it would take a very, very, _very_ long time for a body to turn into soap under water.”

 

“Roar,” said Emily.

 

“Several weeks.  You couldn’t possibly turn into soap under water unless you were—”

 

“ _Sherlock_.”

 

“A fish,” finished Sherlock, and did not look at John.

 

Emily wriggled against Sherlock, and he set her back down.  “I’m a tiger, not a fish,” she said importantly, and to add extra emphasis, “ _Roar_.”

 

John shrugged and hung his coat up on the peg.  “Say goodnight to Jane, Emily.”

 

“Roar,” said Emily.  


“That’ll do,” said Jane, and crawled out from under the table.  “Goodnight, Doctor Watson, Mr Holmes.  Goodnight, Emily.”

 

“Goodnight, Jane,” said Emily, and puckered her lips for a kiss.

 

“Bedtime in about an hour, Emily,” said John casually after Jane had gone to her flat next door.  “Bath tonight, as you’re not a fish.”

 

“What do fish say?” asked Emily, twisting around to look at Sherlock, who looked at John, who grinned at him, clearly delighted to not be on the answering block.

 

“You’re the genius, you answer her,” said John, and he headed into the bedroom.

 

“I don’t know, I deleted it!”

 

“Look it up!” called John from the back of the flat, but before Sherlock could open John’s laptop to deduce the password of the week, Emily seemed to lose interest, and was sitting near the shelves of her books, as if making a vital decision.

 

Sherlock thought of the samples he’d managed to secret into his coat pocket, and went to fetch them.  Within moments, he had arranged the samples on slides, and set up his microscope on the kitchen table. 

 

“Lovely,” said John, entering the kitchen.  “Domestic bliss.”

 

“Emily is quite capable of looking up information on her own,” said Sherlock without looking up from his microscope.

 

“Of course, because all Australian clownfish sound exactly like Hollywood actors with American accents.”

 

“They’re not wearing clothing.”

 

John laughed.  “Glad to see your standards have at least found a median point.”  He leaned over to nuzzle Sherlock’s hair with his nose.  “Don’t think this gets you out of the bath tonight.”

 

“Mmm.”

 

“We’re out of milk.”

 

“Mmm.”

 

Sherlock lost himself in the slides; relishing the quiet moments where he and his daughter were joined in happy exploration of the natural sciences.  If Emily’s research involved slightly more cartoon characters than his own did…well, she’d grow out of it.  Hopefully.

 

“Read,” said Emily.  Sherlock glanced from his microscope to the toddler as if she’d spoken another language entirely, and then up to the rest of the flat, searching for John.

 

John was nowhere to be seen.

 

“ _Read_ ,” insisted Emily again, and she shoved Sherlock’s arm aside – he let go of the microscope just in time – and crawled up onto his lap.

 

“John!” called out Sherlock, alarmed.  But John didn’t come running, and Emily was now sitting on him, opening the oversized book directly over his samples, scattering them into disarray. 

 

“Papa, read,” said Emily, and curled into his lap as if she belonged there.

 

Sherlock frowned at the book.  Emily had opened to the title page, and there, up in the corner, written in faded ink: “To Sherlock on his third birthday, with love from Grandmother”.

 

Sherlock couldn’t remember seeing the book – deleted, he supposed – and he turned the page while Emily wriggled in an effort to find a comfortable position. 

 

“It’s a bear,” he said, helplessly.  At least the bear wasn’t wearing clothing.

 

“Pooh,” supplied Emily helpfully.

 

Sherlock cleared his throat and began to read.  Emily sat patiently; every so often, one leg fell from his lap and dangled beside them, kicking back and forth until she pulled it back up again.  Sherlock tried not to think about the ruined samples on the table, the clock ticking away in the corner of the room. 

 

_First of all he said to himself: “That buzzing-noise means something.  You don’t get a buzzing-noise like that, just buzzing and buzzing, without its meaning something.  If there’s a buzzing-noise, somebody’s making a buzzing-noise…”_

 

The slides and microscope were forgotten.  Sherlock sat straight up in his chair, nearly dislodging Emily.

 

“John!” he called out, excitedly.  “John.  This bear is _deducing_.”

 

“Papa,” said Emily.

 

“Emily, listen closely,” Sherlock told her.  “Do you understand what the bear is doing?  He is observing the world around him, and using the information that observation provides to form a conclusion about what is occurring.  There is a buzzing noise, ergo, someone is making a buzzing noise.”

 

“Papa, _read_.”

 

“In a moment.  Now, let’s think about what could be making that buzzing noise?”

 

Emily leaned forward and fumbled with the pages, trying to turn the book over.  Sherlock helped her select a single page and turned it.

 

“Bees,” said Emily.

 

“There you are then, Emily, the buzzing is coming from bees.  Clearly the bear is listening to bees.”  Sherlock paused, and then his eyes widened.  “ _Bees_ , Emily.”

 

“Read,” said Emily.

 

“Bees,” repeated Sherlock, amazed, and he quickly flipped to the front of the book again, and read the inscription.  _To Sherlock, on his third birthday, with love from Grandmother_.

 

“Papa, _read_.”

 

_…and the only reason for making a buzzing-noise that_ I _know of is because you’re a bee._

 

Not entirely accurate, of course – there were quite a few insects that made a buzzing noise, and Sherlock could name half a dozen without trying.  But his mind was still in a whirl what with the bees and the bear and the book being his some thirty years previously, and Sherlock wondered how he had managed to delete what was clearly such an influential story.

 

_Then he thought another long time and said: “And the only reason for being a bee that I know of is making honey.”_

 

“Oh, _now_ ,” snorted Sherlock, his sense of wonder and enchantment doused as quickly as it had been roused.  “Don’t pay the least bit of attention to this bear, Emily.  Bees do not exist for the sole purpose of providing us with honey.  Bees pollinate the flora around them; without pollination, we would not have nearly the abundance of flora, to include much of the foodstuff which we eat.”

 

“Read,” said Emily.

 

“It’s really quite short-sighted of the bear to look at a bee and think only of the honey.  Bees are endlessly fascinating creatures, Emily.  Their entire social structure is one based on the sole propagation of the species, centering around and catering to the queen.  Their method of communication is based on intricate dances – you would like that part, I suspect…”

 

“Papa, _read_.”

 

_And then he got up, and said: “And the only reason for making honey is so as_ I _can eat it.” So he began to climb the tree_.

 

“Oh, now!” shouted Sherlock, outraged.

 

Emily sighed heavily, and slid out of Sherlock’s lap.  She reached back to tug at the book.

 

“John!” shouted Sherlock.  “John, this book is absolute nonsense!  I refuse to let it be read to Emily as an example of deductive reasoning.  The bear doesn’t even consider that his attempt to eat the honey will result in the destruction of the hive, not to mention the fact that the honey was intended for the bees to consume during winter months, and not for his personal gratification.”

 

Emily succeeded in pulling the book away from Sherlock, and scampered to the other side of the flat, just as the door opened and John came in, wearing his coat and hat, and carrying a Tesco’s bag.

 

“What’s all this?” asked John, confused, and looked down at Emily, who was already handing him the book.

 

“Where have you been?” demanded Sherlock.

 

John held up the Tesco’s bag.  “I told you, we needed milk.”

 

“Daddy,” said Emily, relieved.  “Read.”

 

“Never mind the milk,” said Sherlock firmly. “I demand that book be incinerated.  I clearly deleted it for a reason.”

 

John took the book from Emily and read the cover.  “It’s Winnie-the-Pooh.”

 

“It’s a terrible example of deductive reasoning, and I don’t want Emily to suffer the incorrect assumptions that bear has about the purpose of bees.”

 

John’s mouth quirked.  “It’s a children’s book, Sherlock.”

 

“It’s manipulative, incorrect nonsense.”

 

John shook his head and chuckled.  “I think this is one of the books your mother gave me for Emily.”

 

“Obviously, John, didn’t you read the inscription?  It’s my book, I’ll see to its destruction.”

 

Sherlock reached for the book; John quickly hid it behind him.  Emily watched with wide eyes.

 

“No,” said John, half amused and half horrified.  “It’s Emily’s book now, and she wants to read it.”

 

“My book,” said Emily and reached for it.

 

“John.  It’s _wrong_.”

 

“Emily likes it.”

 

“Emily likes Marmite; Emily’s opinions are hardly to be trusted on such matters,” snapped Sherlock and tried to reach for the book behind John.  John stepped back against the wall, effectively pinning the book behind him.  Sherlock stepped right up to him and pressed against him lightly.

 

“My book,” said Sherlock, and looked down at John, who looked up at him.  John’s coat was still cold from being outside – _temperature dropping again, rain stopped, still damp in the air, might snow tomorrow_.  His cheeks were flushed – _a_ _short walk, but out of breath, four months on from the accident, shouldn’t have exerted himself after the long day_.  His eyes were bright, and his lips parted, still moving slightly, as if about to say something.

 

“John,” said Sherlock.  He could feel all of John against him, hard and soft and cold and warm; the breath from John’s mouth on his throat, the dark blue of his eyes growing darker. 

 

“Sherlock,” said John, and the way he said it, Sherlock knew that John felt it too, wanted Sherlock just as badly as Sherlock wanted him. 

 

And then the moment was lost to two small hands, pulling and pushing hard at Sherlock’s legs, the small whimpering noises from the back of Emily’s throat. 

 

“No no _no_!” cried Emily, and she reached over and hit him hard on the leg, just over the spot where he’d broken it four years previously.  Sherlock let out a hiss from the sudden pain and stepped back, away from John.  Emily quickly reached up for John to pick her up, and he did, wincing a little.

 

“Hey, now,” said John to Emily.  “We don’t hit, it’s not nice.” 

 

Sherlock stumbled back and fell on the sofa, rubbing his leg.  It wasn’t the pain so much as the _shock_ – the feel of Emily’s hands on his legs, pushing him away from John, wedging herself in between them.  Sherlock half thought the series of “no’s” from the little girl was less because of the confiscation of the book than it was the way that Sherlock had pressed against John, pushed him up against the wall as if he was going to ravish him then and there.

 

“My book,” said Emily, almost tearfully, and she wrapped her arms around John’s neck.  Sherlock didn’t think she was talking about the book at all; but then, supposing that Emily understood the concepts of symbolism at the age of nearly three was only slightly more ridiculous than a bear deducing the purpose of bees.

 

“Yes, of course your book,” agreed John.  “But you still shouldn’t hit, you hurt Papa’s leg.  You need to apologize.  Go on.”

 

John set Emily back down on the floor, and gave her a little push.  Emily pouted for a moment, and then turned to Sherlock with a glare.

 

“Sorry, Papa,” she said, sulkily, and turned on her heels to take John by the hand.  “Read.  Please.”

 

Sherlock watched as John sat next to him on the sofa.  “Come here, poppet,” he said, and Emily crawled up onto his lap, curled herself comfortably against his chest.  John struggled to shrug off his coat, and Sherlock, cautiously watching Emily, helped him.  Emily watched, her eyes small and suspicious, but she didn’t protest.

 

“Here,” said John, and he handed the book to Sherlock.  “It was your book once.  You read it to her.”

 

“I told you, it’s absolute nonsense.  I won’t have her read it.”

 

“She likes it,” said John, and he wrapped his arm around Emily and rested his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. 

 

John’s head was heavy on his shoulder.  Sherlock could smell the stale scent of the clinic in his hair, and a few other things besides.  “You drew blood three times, and at least two different patients threw up on you.  One of the nurses will be in estrus by tomorrow.”

 

John was quiet for a moment.  “Does it bother you?”

 

“No,” said Sherlock, because it didn’t.  It wasn’t John in estrus; that would have been different.

 

“I’ll shower later, if that’s all right.”

 

“Read,” said Emily, more to John than to Sherlock, but Sherlock opened the book anyway, and turned the pages until he’d found where he left off.

 

_He climbed and he climbed and he climbed, and as he climbed he sang a little song to himself. It went like this:_

 

Sherlock broke off. 

 

“Oh, no,” he said firmly.  “John, I’m not singing.”

 

“Sing,” said Emily firmly, and John burst into giggles.

 

*

 

The singing stayed on Sherlock’s mind.  The way John had giggled when Emily clamped her hand over Sherlock’s mouth when he tried to put the strange and silly words to song, and he and Emily had sung a different tune together, as if they’d sung it from the day she was born.  Which, Sherlock supposed, they probably had.

 

He thought of it as John took Emily to the loo, and thinking of that made him think of something else. It didn’t take long to break into John’s laptop and find the lyrics.  Another moment or two to remind himself of the tune, and by the time they’d returned, he was ready.

 

Sherlock didn’t think the bedtime ritual had changed that much in the four months since he’d come home – it was perhaps more streamlined, but otherwise it remained much the same.  The toys were put away, a book was read, kisses and cuddles with Daddy while Sherlock began to draw the bath.  Emily didn’t seem the least bit concerned about turning into soap bubbles in the bath, and Sherlock took up his typical bathtime discussion of the molecular structure of water until he was well sure that John had returned to the sitting room, out of range.

 

John sang to Emily in the bath.  Silly songs, funny songs, songs about ducks and fish and submarines.  Sherlock learned them, grudgingly, and refused to sing a note.

 

Which was why when he started singing now, Emily glanced up in stark disbelief, before giving him a cross-eyed sort of look, and turning back to her bath toys.

 

_Out of my window looking in the night_

_I can see the barges flicking light_

_Silently flows the river to the sea_

_And the barges too go silently._

 

He whispered the words more than he sang them, and his voice echoed in the small chamber.  It sounded…nice.  Almost melodic, really.  At least, Emily hadn’t told him to stop.

 

_Barges, I would like to go with you_

_I would like to sail the ocean blue_

_Barges, have you treasures in your hold?_

_Do you fight with pirates brave and bold?_

 

He reached into the water and pulled out one of the cups Emily used to pour the water over her head.  The more he sang the song, the more the memories tugged back in: sitting in the bath with his mother sitting beside him.  The quick succession of nannies never knew the proper songs anyway, and usually by the end of the day, they were well done with him.  Aurora was never tired of him – perhaps because she had so little to do with him during the course of the day, but even on what the nannies termed as a “good” day, she was there for his bath.  Without fail.

 

_How my heart longs to sail away with you_

_As you sail across the ocean blue_

_But I must side beside my window clear_

_As the barges sail away from here_

 

Emily began to hum along now as he sang the refrain over again – oh, how clever she was.  She didn’t know the words, of course not, but the tune was simple enough, and Sherlock sang with somewhat more confidence with Emily propping him up. 

 

A metaphor, he thought.  Solving a murder wasn’t nearly as much fun until John had joined him.  Baths weren’t nearly as much fun without song to make them interesting.

 

Sherlock didn’t hear the steps in the hall, or the person moving into the bedroom to listen.  Emily splashed in the bath, giggling and trying to sing along, despite not knowing the words. 

 

_One of these days and it will not be long_

_You will look for me and I’ll be gone_

_Face to the wind far out upon the sea_

_Where the whales and dolphins sing to me._

 

Emily slipped in the bath and laughed when Sherlock reached to catch her from submerging in the water.  She hit her hands against the water, and it splashed out.

 

“Soap bubbles, Papa!” said Emily, as the water frothed around her.

 

“Not you,” said Sherlock, and Emily splashed again.

 

“Again!”

 

Sherlock knew what she meant.  He sang the refrain one last time.

 

_So out of my window looking in the night_

_I can see the barge’s flickering light_

 

He thought he heard the bathroom door close behind him.  But it’d been closed to begin with, hadn’t it?  No matter.

 

Emily sang along with him now.  Sherlock lowered his voice, and listened to his daughter sing the words that bound them together.

 

_Taking their cargo out into the sea_

_How I wish that someday they’d take me._

 

*

 

Night had fallen hours before, but it didn’t ever truly seem to be proper night until Emily was asleep.  Sherlock dried her, dressed her, put her to bed with a kiss and a last story.  He watched her eyes droop as she clutched Elfin to her chest, before he turned out the light.

 

“Goodnight, Emily,” he said softly, and Emily turned in her bed so that her back was to him.

 

He went slowly down the stairs, listening to the quiet.  The distant sound of the traffic on Baker Street, the comfortable shuffling of Mrs Hudson downstairs.  He thought he could hear their neighbors on either side, playing music or watching telly or talking or whatever they did, but Emily slept on, oblivious. 

 

He stepped into their sitting room, and found it empty.

 

“John?”

 

Silence – not oppressive or cold, but comfortable and warm.  Almost welcoming, as if Sherlock was coming home.  Sherlock turned off the lights as he walked through the flat, heading into the bedroom, where surely John waited for him.

 

Sherlock remembered the kiss under the awning outside the Chinese restaurant.  The quiet warmth in the taxi, the feel of John’s breath on his throat, and Sherlock locked the doors as he passed them, every step growing in anticipation.

 

He reached the bedroom, and pushed the door open.  John was on the bed, back to him, curled away.  Sherlock saw the t-shirt, and his heart fell.

 

_Oh_.

 

“John?”

 

“Tired,” said John, his voice muffled and quiet.  “Long day.”

 

Sherlock closed the door with a soft click.  “Yes.  Can I…do you mind…”

 

“It’s all right,” said John after a moment, and Sherlock shucked his clothing quickly and crawled into the bed with John.  He wrapped his arms around the other man, and rested his nose against the nape of John’s neck, breathing in his scent.

 

Warmth, solid and comforting.  A touch of sorrow, which made Sherlock wonder.  He almost asked about it, and did not.

 

The quiet moments rarely lasted.  There was always a ringing phone, a crying toddler, someone popping into the flat with an agenda, whether it was to their benefit or not.

 

Sherlock liked the quiet moments, when it was just them.  When he could pretend that life was _still_ just them.  Sometimes, Sherlock would reach out and pull John closer, kiss him softly, and John would rest his hands on Sherlock’s skin.  John might have been turned away from him – John might have been a little sad for some reason – but it was still a quiet moment, and John was still in it with him.  It was no less precious for the details.

 

They would sleep for now.  In the morning, Sherlock would wake up in bed with John, watch his chest rise and fall, reach out to trace the lines of his bones under his skin.  John would smile in his sleep, shift, turn to Sherlock and open his eyes.  Smile a sleepy smile at him, and reach to hold his hand.

 

Normal, redefined.  Instead of Sherlock and John in 221B, it was Sherlock and John and Emily, with the continual background noise of the new nanny Jane, of Emily’s friends and their parents.  Of Mrs Hudson insisting on vegetables, of Mycroft dropping by with sweets in his pockets, of Harry and her caustic opinions. 

 

And then there were the old bits, too.  Of Lestrade ringing with cases, of Mrs Hudson loudly declaring she was not their housekeeper, often while serving them tea.  Running out of milk, arguing about the shopping, refusing to change out of pajamas.

 

Sherlock felt John’s breath deepen as he dropped into sleep.  He still felt the longing for him, the bond between them taut and thin, but no less strong.  They had time, thought Sherlock, all the time in the world, and he closed his eyes, and slept.

 


	8. Chapter 8

Deigo’s seizures started and stopped with such frequency that John lost track of how much time had gone by since he and Sherlock were found in the wine cellars. He knew that Sherlock had followed him up the stairs, a bit slower than John’s quick two-steps-at-a-time bounding. He could hear the uneven pace of Sherlock’s limp – nearly forgotten, most days, but exacerbated by the cold and the damp in the cellars. John wasn’t sure how long Sherlock had been there. No more than a few days, but it was long enough for the scent of the dust to settle on his skin.

John thought of the scent of Sherlock’s skin, just below the hairline on the back of his neck, and pushed the thought away when Diego seized again.

“Dilantin, now,” he snapped at one of the nurses, and it was in his hand in moments. The seizure slowed, and stopped, and John listened to Diego’s heartbeat, felt for his pulse, eyes on the clock as the second hand worked its slow way around, marking time.

Two minutes. Three minutes. Five minutes. 

John let out the breath he’d been holding. The nurses bustled around him, wiping the sweat and the foam from Diego’s mouth. John turned to Nola Moriarty, who stood at attention at the doorway, having refused to leave the room, despite the insistence of the nurses.

Behind Nola, standing in the hall but near the door, was Sherlock, looking in. John looked at Sherlock for a moment, and saw something in his eyes. Fear? Sorrow? He wasn’t sure. Whatever it was, it made it difficult for John to look away, to concentrate on Nola Moriarty, who needed him more in that moment than Sherlock could.

“He’s stable,” said John. “I can’t guarantee he won’t seize again.”

“Of course not,” said Nola quietly. She stepped back to the bed, and reached for Diego’s hand. “Thank you, Doctor. You were here very quickly.”

“He needed me,” said John simply, and he picked up the chart at the foot of Diego’s bed and began to write his notes. He could feel Sherlock’s gaze on his shoulders, and he tuned out the shuffle of feet around him, the nurses still clearing away the debris of syringes and medications, the soiled sheets and pillows and towels. John was nearly done when Sherlock spoke.

“Burns on 70% of his body, legs and arms and face and neck. Some on his stomach and chest. He had seven skin grafts before his fourth birthday, all of them successful. But his eyes were badly damaged, he didn’t regain sight for three months and then it was a gradual return.”

John’s pen stilled on the paper. He read over his words, without quite comprehending them, all focus on Sherlock. Patient stable, breathing irregular. 

“Five years old and unable to attend school, but you hired him tutors. He loved reading, adventure stories, tales of the sea and the land. Smart as a whip, they told you. He understood everything, English or Spanish or Gaelic, worked out a sign language of his own for communication.”

John placed the clipboard at the foot of Diego’s bed. He settled his hands on the mattress, staring at Diego’s still-pointed toes, under the thin sheet. Sherlock couldn’t have known all this from looking at Diego Moriarty, prone in bed and uncommunicative with anyone, in any way. This wasn’t deduction – this was dedication.

Sherlock hadn’t been following Nola. He’d been following Diego.

“He was strong enough to use a wheelchair for a while, around ten or twelve. He loved the gardens, would spend hours trying to grow roses and teaching his brother how to transfer plants from one pot to the other. No one taught him. He taught himself.”

John glanced up in time to see Nola brush the hair from Diego’s brow, her fingers gentle on his skin. “He was always such a clever boy.”

“He tried to block the smoke by shoving the duvet under the door, but the fire was too advanced, and the flames destroyed his hands and face. You broke the windowpanes, and he crawled out to you.”

The flames overtaking the small house, crackling as they ate everything in their path; a small child being passed through jagged glass. Run into the woods, don’t come out until it’s safe. But that was a different house, and a different child. He wondered who Sherlock had seen, seizing on the bed, and thought he understood the strange expression on Sherlock’s face.

“Tell me, Mr Holmes,” said Nola. “Is there anything about my son that you don’t know?”

Sherlock came to stand behind Nola, still looking at Diego. “I must admit, I haven’t quite determined the identity of James Moriarty’s father. Mario was dead long before his conception.”

Nola chuckled. “A minor point, Mr Holmes. James never knew his father, just as Diego never knew his.”

“Did you ever intend for James to be anything but a replacement for his brother?”

Nola whipped around to stare at Sherlock. “How dare you—”

“Their very names, Mrs Moriarty,” said Sherlock coolly. “Both with the same root. It’s quite obvious, really.”

“James was never Diego’s replacement,” snapped Nola. “If you were a father, you’d know that.”

“I am a father.”

Sherlock’s voice with without emotion; factual, without memory of the revelation in the cellar. The little book in John’s shirt pocket is heavy against his chest.

“In name, perhaps. But what sort of father are you – the kind who disappears when there’s a more interesting puzzle. Without a word or a backwards glance. You knew about your daughter – from the very beginning, you knew – and you never once went back, sent word, thought about her, considered her. You would have chased me until the end of time had I not sent Moran after your Doctor Watson.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “A decision which inadvertently thrust me into fatherhood.”

“So all was not lost, was it?” Nola turned back to her son. “And now another is on the way. How terribly sweet for you.”

“Through no interference of your own, of course.”

“I’m sure I have no idea what you mean.”

“You spent ten years developing the suppressants that would allow Diego to suffer his heats with a modicum of comfort. By the time he went through puberty at fourteen, you’d found a successful formula.”

“Suppressants existed long before my research, Mr Holmes.”

“But yours were improved. Yours allowed omegas to function within society with degrees of comfort previously unknown. Yours were used by millions throughout the world, became the base of dozens of replicas. Without your research—”

Sherlock dropped off, and glanced at John. He looks lost for a moment, as if he’s back at their beginning, uncertain where they stand with each other, so anxious about a bonding that hasn’t occurred that he’s afraid he might do something to change John’s mind. 

As if John would change, with the bonding. As if either of them could….

Then again, in a way, they had.

“Without them, you wouldn’t have him at all,” Nola finished for him. “Mr Holmes, do you really think that I went through the trouble of ensuring that Doctor Watson was prescribed the same medication that I’d spent years developing for my own sons, thus keeping him from bonding with the first alpha to pass by, bearing children that weren’t yours, keeping him from becoming yours at all? Only then to ensure that that very medication failed at the exact moments necessary to result in your children? Rather far-fetched, wouldn’t you say? Perhaps I have that level of influence and ability, but honestly. I have far better ways to spend my time than bothering about your propagation of the species.”

Nola pushed back from Diego, and stood to face Sherlock. “I bore my son James for the same reason any mother bears a second son: because she wants him. And I wanted him because Diego needed him – needed a brother, needed a helpmeet, needing someone to care for him when I was no longer able to do so. James was never meant to replace Diego. He was meant to assist him, to be a brother to him. And I gave him every opportunity which Diego should have had, and James thrived in them. If Diego lived vicariously through James – then that is simply the way of things, when one child is able and the other is not, and I can assure you that James never minded. He was a great man, Sherlock Holmes, and when you killed him, you not only killed my son, but you killed the part of his brother that lived.”

“Life as a criminal mastermind,” said Sherlock quietly.

“At least it was a life.” Nola turned back to Diego. “Perhaps James was far too fascinated with the life he’d been raised in by necessity. I tried to escape my fate, Mr Holmes. But trying to escape destiny is futile, at best. At least I could ensure that James was happy in the life he led.”

Nola sat again. “Perhaps it’s just as well that Diego is dying. James was my insurance, and you stole that from me. When I die, there will be no one to take care of him.”

“It won’t be much longer,” said John quietly, his head still swirling with Sherlock and the little book in his pocket. Nola nodded.

“If you have any further questions, Mr Holmes, I would ask that you save them for now,” said Nola. “I would rather spend the hours that matter with Diego.”

John reached over and took Sherlock’s sleeve. “Come on,” he whispered, and pulled Sherlock from the room. Sherlock followed, wordlessly, and John walked through the castle without quite knowing where he went. 

Somehow, they found themselves at the front door, and the butler waited, as if they’d announced their arrival long before. He held their coats over his arm, and handed them over.

“There is a lookout over the sea, if you go south,” he advised, and John nodded as he wrapped the scarf around his neck. 

John followed Sherlock down the pathway. The mid-afternoon sun burned brightly, already low over the horizon, and there was a crisp breeze that smelled of saltwater and the strange, sour smell of the sea. John jogged until he’d caught up to Sherlock, and they walked together, side by side, until they found themselves at the edge of the cliff, a straight drop down to the rocky shore below. 

The water was bright at the horizon, blending perfectly with the sky so that John couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. He thought he could make out the faint triangles of sails, the far-off cry of seagulls and freighters, the strange stationary distant waves. It was all familiar and strange, exactly like the view from the rose garden in Spain and exactly not.

“Déjà vu,” he said, looking out over the sea, and beside him, Sherlock began to laugh. John glanced over at him. “What?”

“I dreamed this. While you were in hospital, just before you woke up.”

“It can’t be déjà vu for me if you’re the one remembering it,” said John gruffly, and turned, half expecting to find a bench waiting, and found nothing. He walked a few paces, confused, and then turned back again. Sherlock stood at the edge of the cliff, his hands in his pockets, looking out over the water.

The restlessness in him, the calmness of Sherlock, the misty horizon, the smell of the sea. It was achingly familiar, and John tried to shake the feeling.

“What did we talk about, in the dream?”

“Emily. You. Me. Stuff and nonsense, most of it. I told you that Lestrade was in love with you, and you said I was ridiculous.”

John sighed and looked up at the sky. “You said that when I woke up, too.”

“It was no less true in waking than it was in the dream.”

“Maybe you were right,” John said to the sky. “But it doesn’t matter. I came for you, not for Greg.”

“You did.”

John closed his eyes. “What you said. Earlier. About Emily.”

Sherlock waited. John opened his eyes and looked at the back of Sherlock’s head.

“You didn’t go into the burning house for Emily. You went in for me.”

“I went in for both of you.”

“But you stayed for me.”

Sherlock said nothing. John watched the breeze lift the coattails of the coat. 

“I want to ring the estate and talk to Emily so badly it hurts,” said John.

Sherlock bowed his head.

“Answer me something, Sherlock. Don’t think, don’t pause, no qualifications – yes or no only. Tell me you wish I’d stayed in England.”

“No,” said Sherlock, automatically. “I can’t. I don’t. The worst mistake I’ve ever made, I made twice, and that was to leave you behind.”

John took a breath. “She said you were exactly like her.”

“Did she.”

“You both had to watch your enemies burn your mate and child alive.”

Sherlock’s back straightened. “Did she.” Sherlock’s shoulders shook, stilled, and shook again. It took John a moment to realize that Sherlock was laughing – a dry, incredulous, humorless sort of laugh, but a laugh nonetheless.

John frowned. “You’re thinking something.”

“She doesn’t know,” said Sherlock quietly, and he shook his head. “Only accurate had it been Mycroft who set fire to Moran’s house, and not Nola Moriarty.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Her father was the one who had Mario murdered,” replied Sherlock. “He knew the only way to bring Nola back in was to destroy the life she’d made for herself, and make it look as though it were an attack.”

The wind whipped around them, swirled the information around John, before taking it out to sea. “Does Nola know?”

“Perhaps. I think she never questioned it, for fear of finding it was true.”

“She couldn’t have possibly been able to forgive him.”

“You put entirely too much credit on forgiveness,” said Sherlock, gruffly.

“It’s important.”

“If you haven’t forgiven me by now,” said Sherlock, “then you never will.”

“I forgave you long ago.”

Sherlock turned to face him. “No, you didn’t.”

“I did,” insisted John. “I just didn’t realize it at the time.”

They took the steps toward each other, and gripped each other’s forearms tightly, pressed their noses against each other’s skin, breathed in the mix of salt and sweat and skin. John shuddered in the cold, as Sherlock’s hot breath tickled the small hairs at the nape of his neck, closed his eyes and felt his eyelashes brush against the collar of Sherlock’s coat. 

Time passed. John wasn’t sure how much. It didn’t matter, he supposed. The wind blew, and Sherlock was next to him, and he felt the bond between them pull them tightly against each other, working both with and against their wills, and John breathed into it.

“I wanted you to come with me,” said Sherlock suddenly. “I didn’t ask, because…”

John stiffened. “Emily.”

“Yes. She needs you more than I do.”

“Yes, and that’s why she’s drinking tea with Mycroft, and I found you locked in a wine cellar.”

“That was not entirely my fault.”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

“Your first priority should be the children,” said Sherlock, but to John, it sounded rote, static, as if Sherlock was repeating something he’d heard a thousand times before. Or read, perhaps….

The little book in John’s pocket is hard between them. John reached in and pulled it out to hand to Sherlock, who held his breath as he took it, turning it over and over in his hands, as if he couldn’t quite believe his eyes.

“Where—?” 

“Is that what this says?” asked John quietly. “That my first priority as the omega is to take care of the children, and your priority as the alpha to take care of me? When are you going to get it through your thick skull that my first priority is you? If you’d wanted me to come with you, all you had to do was say.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about not feeling the bond?”

John closed his eyes. “I….”

“Exactly.”

“All right,” said John quietly. “I should have told you. You should have asked me. We both screwed up.”

“Is it…all right?” asked Sherlock, awkwardly. “Another baby.”

“I haven’t had time to wrap my head around it yet,” admitted John.

“I can’t decide if Emily will be pleased or not.”

John chuckled. “A little brother or sister to boss around? She’s more like Mycroft than you think, she’ll love having her own personal minion.”

“Not that. A baby is more competition for your love.”

John frowned and looked up at Sherlock. “That’s ridiculous. No one’s competing for my love.”

“John. Your whole life has been one long series of people competing for your attention. The only question is whether or not you’ll allow a three-way tie.”

John opened his mouth to disagree, but something in Sherlock’s eyes stopped him. “You… you think I love Emily more than you.”

“You do,” said Sherlock calmly. “For now. Eventually, she’ll go off and have her own family, and so will this new one, and then you’ll be mine again.”

John shook his head. “You’re wrong, you know. Family doesn’t stop being family.”

“They did for us. Why would it be any different for our children?”

“Because we’ll make sure of it, Sherlock. And it’s not true, anyway – Harry helped me get out of England, because she recognized that I needed to go. Your brother helped me find my way to you here, because he recognized that you needed me.” John reached up and brushed Sherlock’s hair away from his face. “You’re stuck with us. Sorry.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and pressed his cheek into John’s palm. “Next time I run, I’m taking you with me.”

“Good,” said John. “Because if you run without me, I’ll just have to turn up pregnant and hunt you down again. And I don’t know about you, but I think two’s enough to be getting on with.”

Sherlock chuckled. “All right.”

The kiss should have been quiet and careful, two men meeting each other after months of separation (both physical and emotional). And it did start out that way, John only wanted to give Sherlock the reassurance and the comfort that he so desperately craved, even if he didn’t realize it.

What John didn’t realize was that Sherlock needed more. The kiss was sweet, lips on lips and tongues tentatively testing the waters, careful presses and licks, as if they were new lovers overcoming months of hesitancy. And then it became more, as Sherlock pulled John tightly against him, as John tugged on Sherlock’s lapels, dragged him down.

Because the other thing that John didn’t realize was that he was ready to give in, and when he dragged Sherlock down to him, his fingers gripping Sherlock’s coat, he didn’t forget the months of heartache and uncertainty, the years where he’d been lied to and manipulated. He simply decided that they didn’t quite matter in the same way anymore.

“John.”

“Shut up,” said John into Sherlock’s mouth, and kissed him harder, wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s head and neck, and Sherlock shifted his own arms to hold John up, make it easier. It was still too much; they collapsed into the grass, Sherlock below John. Sherlock let out a breath of air as he hit the ground; John began to laugh.

“Stop it,” scolded Sherlock. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” wheezed John, and he fell to his side, laughing. 

“The baby—”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, the baby’s the size of a pea, he’s fine.”

For a moment, Sherlock was shell-shocked. “He?!?”

“Maybe, I don’t know.” John stretched out on the grass and rested his hands on his stomach. He grinned lazily at the sky. “Might be nice to have a boy. Too much pink around the flat already.”

Sherlock frowned. “I thought you liked pink.”

“Emily likes pink. I tolerate it because I like Emily.”

“I hate pink.”

“Yes, we know. You realize she’s just going to like it that much harder in pink’s defense.”

“We shouldn’t care what it is,” said Sherlock, and he hovered his hand over John’s stomach, almost warily. John reached out and grabbed his hand, and pulled it down until it rested on the fabric of his coat. He held it there, and even though it was separated by layers of fabric, John swore he could feel the warmth from Sherlock’s palm on his skin. “We should be thinking ten fingers, ten toes.”

“Is that what you want?”

“God, no,” said Sherlock, shocked. “I don’t care how many fingers and toes, as long as it’s got a brain worth having.”

“There you are,” said John, and he sat up and kissed Sherlock, his hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck for balance as much as anything else. The kiss grew heated fairly quickly; Sherlock bent John back down to the grass and held himself up on his elbows. John couldn’t feel Sherlock’s weight on top of him, and he wanted to press up into it, or draw Sherlock down. Something, anything, to keep him anchored, to keep him from floating up and off the cliff and over the sea.

“Sherlock…”

“Not here,” said Sherlock, pulling back a little. He looked almost sorry, John thought, pupils blown and mouth down-turned. The curls fell around his face, made his expression a bit difficult to see, and John reached up to push them out of the way. Oh, yes, there it was – desire and restraint all wrapped up together.

“I’ve got a bedroom,” said John, relief and pleasure making him cheeky and bold. It worked; Sherlock grinned at him, and then was off him in a flash, reaching down to pull John to his feet.

“Come on, then, John, what are you waiting for?”

John laughed as Sherlock pulled him up. Sherlock held fast to John’s hand and pulled him away from the cliff, back around the copse of trees to where the house waited, looming quiet and still at the end of the pathway. Sherlock ran, with John close behind, and they fell into the house, pulled at each other’s coats and scarves, dropped them in a heap by the door, before continuing up the stairs.

“You don’t know where you’re going,” laughed John.

“I know you weren’t in the cellars with me,” said Sherlock as he reached the first landing, and stopped dead in the hall. “I don’t know where I’m going.”

“Can’t deduce it so easily, can you?” teased John. “Up again.”

John went easily, with Sherlock right behind. He could hear Sherlock, he could sense him, through the bond, just there, so close and warm and breathing and alive and just as eager as he was, suddenly, to get to the room and test out the bed, and John’s stomach twisted pleasingly at the thought of it. Not a heat, of course not, but something, something good and close and between them only.

John had just reached the hallway when the gunshots rang out, and he fell hard to the carpet, landing on his shoulder. His eyes closed with the shock, all of the breath was knocked from his body, and it felt like a brick wall collapsed on top of him, for all that he was crushed into the floor and couldn’t breathe.

“Down!” shouted Sherlock from far away. John wondered why he bothered to shout; he was down already and had no intention of getting up. “John, stay down.”

“I am down,” John tried to say, and wondered when he was going to start breathing again.

There was another shot; it was enough to bring John back from where his mind had been wandering, and he grabbed hold of the brick wall, which had suddenly sprouted legs, arms, and clothing, and rolled to the side of the corridor, behind one of the large decorative armchairs. It wasn’t much of a cover, but it was better than being in the open. John looked at the brick wall, and wasn’t the least bit surprised to discover it was Sherlock.

“Isn’t this always the way?” asked John wryly, and Sherlock tsked.

“Honestly, John. I know you get off on adrenaline…”

“Don’t tell me you think I engineered this.”

“Nooooo,” said Sherlock, and he peered around the armchair. “Appears that one of Nola Moriarty’s minions has gone rogue.”

“Shite,” said John faintly.

“Security’s too good for anyone to slip in,” said Sherlock thoughtfully. “I wondered how we’d managed to come in this far and not see anyone. I say,” Sherlock called out suddenly. “You’re not a terribly good shot, are you?”

“Well enough,” came back the voice. Young. Trembling a little, a bit high-pitched with fear and fright and something John might have identified as sorrow, except the first thing he realized was that he knew the voice.

“Toph?” he called out, and Sherlock flashed him a look and mouthed something at him. You know him?

A laugh from down the hall. “She lied to me, Doc. Just like you said. She lied to me.”

“Toph, put the gun down. We can talk about this.”

“No!” shouted Toph, and now John heard the anger. “Why should I believe you, either? I believed her, and she lied to me. Who’s to say you’re any different?”

“Because I don’t have any reason to lie to you.”

There was another shot from the gun.

“All right,” conceded John. “I’d like to live, yeah, but it’s not like you wouldn’t catch me out in the lie eventually.”

“What did she lie about, Toph?” asked Sherlock, calmly.

Rustling – Toph pacing. John peered around the armchair and saw the young man, walking back and forth across the floor. He was scratching his scalp, the gun loose in his hand, and John could see the nervous energy, the inability to remain still. He thought he recognized it from Sherlock’s worse days. 

“She said…she said…” Toph stopped in the center of the hall. “She said you wanted to kill her. To kill Diego. That you’d killed James already, that you’ve spent four years trying to bring her down, to destroy everything.”

“That’s not a lie,” said Sherlock, and John flashed him a glare. Now wasn’t exactly the time to be honest about it. “Well, it’s not,” defended Sherlock. “Except for the part about James. He killed himself. But I have spent four years trying to bring down the network he controlled.”

“And now you’re cowering behind a chair,” mocked Toph.

Sherlock stood up and walked into the center of the hall. John groaned and hit his head gently on the side of the wall. Idiot. 

And then John stood up, because there wasn’t much point in hiding any longer, and anyway, John needed a better view of Toph if he was going to figure out how the hell to get them away safely.

Toph was perhaps three meters on, and now the gun was raised up to Sherlock. He glanced at John, but the gun didn’t move from his intended target. His gun, even. John cursed. Just his luck to be held up using his own fucking gun.

“Here I am,” said Sherlock, and raised his hands up to his sides. “God, you’re young. Twenty-four?”

“Twenty-five.”

“Alpha, newly bonded. Your mate’s already pregnant, isn’t she? You talked to John, of course, you know he’s pregnant.”

“I know,” said Toph, and the gun wavered for the first time. The way he was holding it out, it had to be heavy. Two shots fired; it was a twelve-round magazine. Ten shots left. Too many.

“It’s not in you to hurt a pregnant omega, no matter what he’s done,” said Sherlock calmly. “Even if the omega isn’t your own. Your mate, she’s due quite soon, isn’t she? And you’ve been worried about her. Spending extra nights pulling extra work, trying to lay in a supply of funds. Does she know what you’re doing, Toph? Oh, yes – she does, even if she’s not fond of it. Oh, I see. You already know there’s a problem with the baby.”

“Atrial septal defect,” said Toph, and his voice wavered just a little. 

“A hole in the heart,” said Sherlock softly.

“That’s correctable,” said John quickly. “Toph, that’s fine. A little operation when the baby’s a bit older, and by the time he or she is walking, you’ll never have known anything was wrong at all.”

“That’s not the point!” howled Toph, and for a moment, he shifted the gun’s aim from Sherlock to John, and John felt his heart skip a beat. “That’s not the—that has nothing to do with this. Nothing.”

“Doesn’t it?” asked Sherlock. “The doctors have told you this, Toph. Doctor Watson here has confirmed it. No one is lying to you about it, are they? Unless…”

Sherlock’s eyes darted to the open doorway – Diego’s doorway. Sunlight streamed into the hallway.

“She told you her doctors would take care of your child, didn’t she?”

“She said she wouldn’t hurt a child. She said she wouldn’t allow a child to suffer.”

John closed his eyes. His heart pounded heavily in his chest, every beat causing another wave of pain. His head swam with the increased blood flow; he could barely think.

“Emily,” he said softly.

“She meant it,” said Sherlock.

“She tried to kill yours,” screamed Toph. John opened his eyes when Toph screamed, his heart in his throat. He stared at the gun as it wavered again, shook so wildly as the young man screamed, that John was half afraid it was going to go off.

Toph turned and put a second hand on the gun to steady it, but still it shook, up and down, as if it were a feather in his hands.

It bothered John, and he blinked hard, and tried to concentrate on the gun. Something about the gun…

“Do you think she was lying to you about helping your child?” asked Sherlock.

“I don’t know what she lied about.”

“Put the gun down, Toph,” said Sherlock. “We’ll talk to her about it.”

Toph laughed. “Can’t.”

“Toph…”

Can’t. John sucked in a breath. The way Toph shook the gun, it was far too light for ten rounds to be left in the magazine. John looked to the room, with the fading sunlight streaming in, and now he could hear it, the faint, elongated hum of a heart monitor that had nothing left to monitor. Oh, shite. 

Diego, Nola, and the nurse, that was three. Two shots in the hall, that was five.

“Toph,” said John, struggling to keep his voice even and calm. “Let me into Diego’s room, please.”

“No,” gasped Toph, and turned the gun on John. “No, you can’t go in there.”

The butler downstairs, and there had been someone talking to him earlier, hadn’t there? That was seven.

“Please, let me go in, see if I can’t help them.”

“No one left to help!” laughed Toph, high-pitched and frantic.

Sherlock glanced at John, confused for a moment. John couldn’t even look at him. Dougal, that was eight. But Toph was young, the way Toph shook like a leaf, he couldn’t have shot Dougal dead with a single bullet. Two for Dougal, then. Nine.

One bullet left. Maybe.

“Toph, Diego is innocent in all this.”

“Wrong. Diego’s the reason we’re all here. Diego should have fucking died, and then maybe we’d all have been free.”

“They’re dying, Toph,” said John.

“We’ll go,” said Sherlock suddenly, and John turned to him. 

“What?”

“You don’t need to hurt us, Toph,” said Sherlock. “You’re right, I won’t shed tears over Nola or Diego Moriarty. They’re gone and I’m not going to be sorry. But neither John nor I are a threat to you. You have been played for as much of a fool as the rest of us, and all I want is to go home with my mate and raise my children. You can understand that, Toph. You’re the same.”

The gun slowly turned to Sherlock; Toph wavered, and then steeled himself. “No,” he said, more to himself than to them. “You’re telling another tale. You aren’t going to let me go. You and I aren’t the same.”

“We’re fathers, or will be. We’re alphas; we protect, Toph. We don’t destroy.”

“I do,” said Toph, and his voice nearly broke. John didn’t think the boy could take much more before he snapped. “And I know who you are. You’re a genius. I’m a nobody.”

“Just put down the gun.”

“I can’t let you go,” said Toph, still reasoning it out. “You’ll tell. You’ll run to the police. They might have been bad but they’re dead all the same, and I’m the one who killed them…oh god. I’m not safe. Not as long as you’re able to tell them…”

“I won’t tell them.”

“No,” said Toph, and he raised the gun again. There was a fire in his eyes now; John saw his finger move against the trigger. For the first time, Toph’s aim was steady. “You won’t.”

Fuck.

“Sherlock, down!” 

John dove out from behind the chair a split second before the gun went off. He hit Sherlock, knocked him over, and his entire stomach exploded into pain. 

A scream – his? Sherlock? Toph? John wasn’t sure. He opened his eyes and caught a glimpse of Sherlock beneath him, eyes wide with shock, his breath coming fast, and opened his mouth to ask, but the world went dark before he was able to make a sound.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve done something a bit different with the flashback chapter this week – which is to say, we aren’t going to be seeing John or Sherlock this week at all.

It was hot, but every day was hot.  Nola Moriarty wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand and squinted into the sunlight.  She could see the dust cloud before she could hear the car making it, and she tracked its progress as it wound its way up the dirt road.  She waited, slowly making out its features as it came closer.  A peculiar sky-blue, boxy and new and shiny – a hired car, then.  Only one driver, whose pale face was glaring despite being enclosed in glass.  An emissary from her father, no doubt.  It would have been ridiculous for a grown woman to crouch back down in the rose bushes and hide from him, but Nola wanted to do it anyway.  Little doubt he knew exactly where to find her. 

 

The crunch of the car’s wheels on the dirt path slowly increased in volume, almost comparable to the birds in the surrounding trees and Diego’s laughter from somewhere in the back of the garden.  Nola watched the car, and hoped Diego wouldn’t draw any closer.

 

Eventually, the little car reached the end of the road, and pulled to a stop.  The man who stepped out of it was young with hard eyes, a sandy-colored suit with large lapels, and a mustard-yellow tie.  He looked like a movie star’s rendition of a mobster on holiday.  He scanned the garden, clearly looking for someone.  The moment he saw Nola, he gave a brief nod, and started to walk briskly to join her.  Nola didn’t move.

 

“Nola Moriarty,” said the man.  An Irish accent which reminded Nola instantly of home; her theory was correct, then.  Nola straightened her back.

 

“Yes.”

 

The man pulled an envelope out of his jacket pocket, and handed it over to her.  Nola stared at it for a moment.  It had been ten years since she’d seen her father’s handwriting, but she recognized it instantly.  When the man said nothing further, and the envelope didn’t so much as waver, she reached out and took it.  The man waited while she ripped it open and began to read.

 

_Dearest Nola,_

_There are a thousand clichéd ways to begin this letter, but I know you appreciated brevity in all things, and so I will simply say this: I am dead.  The man who has brought you this letter can give you the details, for as of this writing I am not aware of them, but rest assured he will not begin his journey until I am safely in the ground.  I have given you much leeway in the last decade, but it is time to put aside your flowers and come home to take your place._

 

Nola closed her eyes; there was more, and she didn’t want to read it.  She folded the letter and slid it back into the envelope.

 

“I assume it was violent,” said Nola calmly.  “His handwriting doesn’t show signs of weakness.”

 

“Yes,” said the man simply.  “There is a flight for Dublin tomorrow morning.”

 

“That’s nice,” said Nola, and she folded the envelope and put it in her pocket.  “If you go into the kitchen, I’m sure Ana can find you something to drink before you leave.”

 

“You’re coming with me, of course.”

 

“No,” said Nola, and she bent back down to the base of the rose bush again.  It was a stupid move, really, because it was very likely that the man standing across from her had been very close to her father, and as such, was not exactly someone one turned their back on. 

 

And yet, Nola had absolutely no doubt that by showing the man she wasn’t afraid of him, she was also showing him exactly how much she did not care.

 

“The family business is your birthright—”

 

“No,” said Nola again, slightly more harshly.  “It’s not.  It’s neither family, nor business, nor is it my birthright to take it over once my father is dead. As far as I’m concerned, I have no family apart from those in this house, of which my father was never one.  The empire he ruled was not _business_ , but playing at some sort of boyish game that went on entirely too long after childhood.  As for birthright...there is no law stating that I must carry on whatever ridiculous game my father pursued.  He’s dead; let his ‘empire’ die with him.”

 

“It’s not that easy,” said the young man.  “There are people out there who wanted your father dead.”

 

“Then I’m sure they’re very pleased with themselves,” said Nola. 

 

“They’ll assume you’ve taken up his mantle.”

 

“They’ll be surprised when I do not, won’t they?”

 

The man shook his head.  “I think you’re putting a great deal more credit to their rationality than they actually deserve.”

 

Nola threw up her hands.  “I’m tending roses in Spain.  Who is honestly going to think that I’m running a crime syndicate in Dublin if I’m down here?”

 

“It’s not just Dublin anymore.  Your father expanded the business - Dublin was only where he wanted to live.  You could very easily control everything from this house.  And his enemies will assume that you are.”

 

“You were his right-hand man, weren’t you?  You can tell them otherwise.”  Nola leaned over and started to dig at the dirt around the base of the rose bush.  “You can certainly tell them that I won’t be taking over my father’s game.  Put an ad in the paper.  Write it in blood on the walls.  Whatever your type likes to do, I don’t know.  I don’t care.  It’s not my game, and it never will be.”

 

The man crouched down; his face half hidden by the bush’s leaves.  “You don’t understand.  You’re in danger.  Fine, don’t take over the business.  But if it’s not dismantled properly, if the correct steps are not taken to undo what your father did, then those who hated him are going to want you dead as well.”

 

Nola didn’t answer. 

 

“They killed your father.  They won’t stop and consider before they kill you, too.  The fact that you’re in Spain won’t stop them.  They know exactly where to find you.”

 

Nola went still.  “Because you led them here.”

 

“I had to deliver the letter.”

 

“Amazing thing, the post office,” said Nola coldly.  “They usually are quite good at delivering letters.”

 

Nola dug angrily at the dirt around the rose bush.  It didn’t need digging, but Nola did.

 

“Go away,” she said.  “I don’t want it; I’ve never wanted it.  I never _will_ want it.  If I go with you, they’ll think I’m taking over for my father.  But if you go away, and I don’t follow you – then they’ll see.  I’m not in danger unless I follow you.”

 

“You’re blind,” said the young man angrily.

 

Nola ignored him, and after a few minutes, he left.  Nola waited until she heard the crunch of the car, racing back down the road.  She continued to dig, the paper folds of the envelope in her pocket pushing in against her skin.

 

Somewhere in the back of the rose garden, Diego kept laughing, and Nola heard Mario answer his questions.  Mario would have noticed the car; Mario would want to know who visited, Mario would want to see the letter, and would perhaps read the parts that Nola was unable to face. 

 

Mario would have an opinion.

 

Mario would want her to go.

 

But then, Mario had never cared what Nola did, and Nola had never cared for his opinions.  She would stay in Spain, and hang what her father had wanted for her.

 

*

 

Mario waited until dinner to ask.  “What did the man in the car want?”

 

“To deliver a letter,” said Nola, cutting Diego’s beef for him.  Diego bounced in his chair, reached across the table for the food, too hungry to care about his parents’ conversation, or to wait patiently for his meal to be set in front of him.  “Diego, sit.”

 

“Hungry, Mama,” said Diego, and his small hand landed on a piece of toast.

 

“What letter?” asked Mario, frowning.  “Diego.  _Sit_.”

 

Mario’s harsh tone was familiar, and Diego instantly sat, but could not keep still even so.  He munched on the piece of toast he’d managed to take from his plate.

 

“Later,” said Nola, and put the plate in front of her son. 

 

Later came when Diego was asleep in his room.  Nola handed the letter to Mario silently, and Mario read it slowly, translating the English words to Catalan in his head.  He frowned as he read, and Nola watched his brow crease as he turned the pages.

 

“So,” said Mario when he was done.

 

“I don’t want it,” said Nola.

 

“You’re a fool,” said Mario, and Nola rose from her chair, took the letter from Mario, and went out to the greenhouse.

 

Mario did not follow.

 

It was hours later when Mario finally appeared at the doors to the greenhouse.  Nola knew he was there; she had heard the door open and close behind him, but she didn’t dare look up from the knife deep in the hypanthia of the rose. 

 

“You _are_ a fool,” he said.

 

“Because I don’t want to become what my father wanted me to be?”

 

“No.”

 

“I might be a fool, but at least I’m not like _him_ ,” said Nola, and she slid the knife downward, cutting open the seed pods, which split and shone brightly under her light.  “Better an honest fool, than a criminal.”

 

“You could do great things with the empire he left you—”

 

“Destroy lives, too,” countered Nola.  “And I don’t want any part of it.  _None_.  Do you know what would happen if I followed that insidious little man back to Dublin?  I would never come back again.  I’d never be able to come back, no matter how much I might want it.  There would always be another problem, another person who would require my services, another twist in a never-ending story that would keep me away from everything and anything I wanted.  My father didn’t leave me his empire, Mario.  He left me a gilded cage.  I won’t step into it of my own free will.”

 

“What would happen to it, if you did not step to the helm?”

 

Nola held still.  “Nothing.  Everything he built would wither and die, and someone else would take the pieces and grind them into mulch for someone else’s schemes.  Let them.  It was always rotten anyway.”

 

Mario frowned.  “It’s late.  You should be in bed.”

 

“I’m nearly done; I’ll be along in a few minutes.”

 

Mario hesitated at the door; Nola waited impatiently for him to decide that she knew what she was doing.  He couldn’t have cared less about her, whether or not she slept or stayed awake all night.  It was more about the rose that lay open before her on the cutting table; the movements she made with her knife.  One slip, and five years of work would be over.  Fatigue had no place in a greenhouse.

 

“If your attempt to throw yourself into our work is about your father—”

 

“Nothing I have ever done in the last decade has been about my father,” said Nola, without looking away from the rose.  “And now that he’s dead, nothing I will ever do will be about him, so there’s really very little point in bringing him up.”

 

Mario shrugged.  “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

Mario opened the door; Nola felt the rush of cool night air as it fluttered the petals on the exposed rose in front of her.  “It’s not what your father wanted you to be, _querida_.  It’s what he allowed you to become.”

 

Nola didn’t watch him go, but she heard him move through the garden, brushing by the roses as he went. His footsteps faded into the night, and it wasn’t until she heard the door to the house close that she breathed a sigh of relief, and bent over her work again, concentrating on the point of the knife as she worked.

 

_Querida_.  The idea that Mario could call her anything half so sentimental was laughable.  Another woman, having just learned of her father’s death, might have been touched.  Might have used it as an excuse to let her emotions get the better of her.  Might have put down the knife, and followed Mario up to the house, and into his arms.

 

Nola kept working, forgetting about the hour and the letter and anything but the rose that lay open under her knife.

 

The explosion ripped through the nighttime sky, shook the ground under Nola Moriarty’s feet, and sent her to her knees. 

 

She didn’t stay there very long – only long enough to realize what had happened, what was happening in the little house at the top of the rose garden.  She moved slowly, first sheathing the knife so that it didn’t accidentally cut anyone, then finding a telephone to call for help. 

 

But the house burned brightly at the top of the garden; it would be seen for miles around, and Nola drew as closely as she dared to the hot flames, hardly able to breathe, her entire body numb with shock.

 

It was as she came closer that she realized – the entire house was not on fire.  There was one window, toward the back, dark instead of glowing orange.  The moment Nola realized which window it was, she raced toward it, heedless of the flames.

 

*

 

The young man found her on the wooden benches in the hospital gardens.  She was bent over, a cardigan wrapped around her body as if the heat didn’t rise in waves from the hard ground.

 

“Your roses are better.”

 

Nola didn’t look up at him.  “What do you know about roses?”

 

“Nothing,” said the man.  “What do you know about your father’s enemies?”

 

Nola looked up at him.  “That makes us even, does it?”

 

It surprised her, how sad the man looked.  “I tried to tell you.”

 

Nola thought a dozen curses, in English and Gaelic and Catalan, and in the end, said none of them.  She turned her head away again.

 

“I’ve delayed the flight until tomorrow.”

 

Nola closed her eyes.

 

“After the funeral.”

 

“I need a week,” said Nola.

 

“There isn’t time—”

 

She opened her eyes and looked up at him, straightening, breathing hard.  She could almost hear the harshness of her father, in the back of her throat, and saw the boy’s face change from sympathetic to resolute. 

 

“If you want me in Dublin,” said Nola, “you’ll give me a week.”

 

The young man inhaled, and almost smiled.  “Three days.”

 

“Four.”

 

“Three, and an armed guard for your son.”

 

“Three,” said Nola, “and my son comes with me.”

 

“Done,” said the young man.  He held out his hand.  “Sebastian Moran.”

 

Nola nodded, not caring.  She pulled the cardigan closer around her body, and went back into the hospital room where her son slept.

 

*

 

The difference between the doctors in Dublin and the doctors in Spain was the language.  Nola let Moran handle the details, the nurses, the schedules, the arguments with the pilots who did not want to allow Diego aboard with his plethora of accoutrements.  She sat beside her small son, and held his hand, and brushed the hair back from the only side of his face which she was allowed to touch.  Diego never once opened his eyes, and for that, Nola was grateful – if Diego slept, then he couldn’t feel the pain.

 

Nola was only half aware of the movements that Moran made behind the scenes.  It wasn’t until they were in the air that she noticed him sitting, not so close that she felt observed, but near enough that if she needed him, he would be ready.  His eyes were closed, but his breaths were too rapid to indicate sleep.

 

“How long have you worked for my father?” Nola asked.

 

Moran didn’t open his eyes.  “Four years, Miss Moriarty.”

 

“You can’t be more than twenty-one or twenty-two.”

 

Moran didn’t respond; Nola approved.  A private individual, her father would have approved of him, despite his youth. 

 

“A rather important assignment for someone so young,” said Nola, and Moran opened his eyes. 

 

“I’m dispensable,” said Moran, and Nola laughed.

 

“Oh, Mr Moran, I doubt that very much.”

 

“And I doubted you were a fool,” said Moran, and closed his eyes again.  “If we are blown out of the sky on our return to Dublin, then the company has lost nothing.”

 

“I’m nothing?”

 

“At the moment,” said Moran.  He opened his eyes and leaned forward.  “You may have agreed to return to Dublin, but apart from Niall Moriarty’s daughter, you are nothing to us.  You don’t know the business.  You don’t know the people.  You barely understand the stakes, or you would have agreed to come initially.”

 

“My stubbornness led to Mario’s death, is that what you’re saying?” asked Nola coldly.

 

“No,” said Moran.  “Nor your pride.  _You_ had nothing to do with your mate’s death, nor any choice you did or did not make.  He died because of who everyone believes you to be, and the only way you can protect yourself and your son is by becoming that person and ensuring they fear you more than they want to kill you.”

 

Nola kept her eyes focused on Diego, still asleep.  “Mario wasn’t my mate.”

 

A pause.  “I’m sorry,” said Moran.  “I thought—Diego—”

 

“You thought correctly,” said Nola.  “But we weren’t bonded or married.  It doesn’t matter.  I suppose the only truth that matters is the truth everyone believes.”

 

“Yes,” said Moran, after another moment.

 

“Would they blow us out of the sky?”

 

“If they could, I think so.  But I have checked every inch of the plane, and apart from external dangers, we are safe.”

 

“Cold comfort,” said Nola.  She looked up at him.  “Diego would have been safer in Spain.”

 

“And if we had died in flight, where would he be?” asked Moran softly.  He rose and walked to the other side of Diego’s bed.  Every muscle in Nola’s body tensed, but Moran’s hand was soft as it rested on the top of Diego’s head.  The look on his face was kind and sorrowful, without pity.  “Better that he stay with you, Miss Moriarty.  Someone to keep you from turning into your father, in the end.”

 

“And what was my father, in the end?” asked Nola.

 

Moran shook his head, and brushed the hair from Diego’s face.  “A monster,” he said softly, and returned to his seat, and closed his eyes again.

 

*

 

The days in Dublin were dark, at first.  Nola saw Diego in snatches, stolen minutes in the morning and evening, and the rest of the time, struggled to learn of the empire her father had built.  Names half forgotten from childhood, men she’d met as a toddler, sitting on their knees, sucking on the boiled sweets they’d dug from their pockets.

 

Men who had dealt in backroom deals, killed those who refused to pay, slipped from the police they couldn’t bribe, and ensured that the rest of the authorities were safely in their pockets. 

 

It took four months to track the men who had caused the explosion, and when Nola found them, she insisted on accompanying the team that went to end them.  She watched as the team dismantled the house, destroyed the files, set the gas leak, and left the condemned man with a book of matches, to decide the time of his own death.

 

The house burned.  It seemed fitting.  Nola returned home, her face stony, and her heart shaken.

 

Moran met her at the door when she returned. 

 

“Diego’s awake,” he said, and Nola forgot about the house. 

 

Diego wasn’t in pain, which was a very good thing.  His eyes darted back and forth until they rested on his mother, and Nola sat on the chair next to her son’s bed and rested her head on the pillow near his, both of them gazing at each other, seeking each other out. 

 

“Hello, my love,” Nola whispered to her son, and Diego blinked rapidly at her, before closing his eyes again for a long, slow blink.  She let out a ragged sigh, and buried her eyes in the pillow to soak up the tears that formed.

 

When she raised her head again, Moran stood on the other side of the bed.

 

“When did he wake?” she asked.

 

“Half an hour ago,” said Moran.

 

“Who was sitting with him?”

 

“I was.  I told him you were coming.”

 

Nola frowned.  “But…”

 

“I knew you wouldn’t want him to be alone,” said Moran.  “And there’s no one else he knows.”

 

“He doesn’t know you.”

 

Moran shrugged.  “All right.  There’s no one else _you_ know, but me.  I thought you’d want someone you knew to sit with him.”

 

Nola turned back to Diego.  He slept easily now; the burns were healing.  The doctors weren’t sure if he would be the same when he woke, if he’d walk or talk or even live to the end of the month, some days.  “I read your file.”

 

Moran didn’t say anything.

 

“Dispensable, you told me.  The first day, on the plane.”

 

“I think it was a few days, by then.”

 

“Not in any way that counts for my life now,” said Nola.  “Is that what you want?  To be dispensable?”

 

“There are advantages to being dispensable,” said Moran.  “Of all people, I would think you could understand that.”

 

Nola swallowed the sudden rise of anger.  “I see.”

 

Moran didn’t speak or move; Nola half thought he was waiting to see if she would continue, but she had no desire to continue talking just then. 

 

“I’ll leave you,” said Moran, and he turned to leave the room. Nola’s heart jumped in her throat.

 

“As you wish,” she said, and he was gone.

 

Two weeks later, she signed off on the new orders, dispatching Sebastian Moran to England, dissolving his association with her network, and setting him free.  It was the only thing to do, really, to keep him dispensable.  She could already feel him creeping under her skin, becoming her stalwart and her standby. 

 

Nola didn’t need Sebastian Moran to become indispensable, any more than he needed her to need him close.  She heard he’d joined the Army, his natural way with guns paving his way. 

 

Better, she thought, and did not think about him for a very long time after that.

 

*

 

“His vocal chords are damaged beyond repair.  His mobility is limited.  His skin will never properly heal.  He will walk, but only with assistance.

 

“His mind is sharp.”

 

Nola stood.  “Thank you,” she told the doctors, and left the offices.  She didn’t say a word on the ride home, and it wasn’t until she found Diego in the gardens outside the house that she allowed the prognosis to sink in.

 

Diego sat on the grass, his nurse by his side, as he carefully poured the sand from one cup to the other.  It was an inexpert job; the sand pooled at his feet, and Diego, frustrated, threw the cups across the grass.  They bounced at his toes, and rested there. 

 

“Ach, now, laddie,” said Mary, the sweet-tempered nurse who was Diego’s constant companion.  She was kind enough, and Nola thought the girl might have loved Diego as much as she did, most days.  Certainly she had more patience than anyone Nola had ever met in her life.  “Let’s try again.”

 

“Here,” said Nola, and reached for the cups to hand them back to her son.  “Thank you, Mary, I’ll sit with him for a bit.”

 

“Of course, ma’am,” said Mary, and she leaned over to kiss Diego on the forehead before rising to go.  Diego wiped at the kiss with a frown, and Mary laughed at him.  “I’ll just go and prepare your afternoon snack.”

 

Nola scooped the sand into a cup and held it in front of Diego.  “Your hand on mine, love,” she said, and after a moment, Diego rested his hand on Nola’s.  The skin was shiny, the fingers permanently curled.  Nola felt the pressure as Diego pushed on her hand, and Nola slowly tipped the cup to let the sand stream out evenly, caught in the cup she held below.

 

Diego sighed, satisfied, and Nola switched, as Diego directed her other hand to pour the sand back out.

 

“There,” said Nola.  “That’s better, isn’t it?”

 

Diego nodded, slowly, the pressure of his hands solid on Nola’s arms.

 

It came to Nola so quickly, the little spark of an idea.  There was no rhyme or reason for it, and when she gasped with the thought, Diego glanced up at her.

 

“I’ve only just thought,” said Nola, and she smiled at her son.  “Shall I tell you?  Or shall I keep it a secret?”

 

Diego pressed his hands on his mother’s – once, twice.  Nola’s smile sparkled at him.

 

“A secret, then,” she promised, and while Diego continued to direct the sand, Nola began to think of how she might accomplish it.

 

*

 

It started with a phone call. 

 

“Moran,” he said, answering the phone with crisp tones, and Nola caught her breath with the confidence in his name.  There was a catch in her throat; she tried to speak and could not.

 

“Hello?  Is anyone there?”

 

“Sebastian.”

 

Silence across the line – and then her name, bursting with the slow smile of a man who didn’t need to remember who she was, because he already knew.

 

“Nola.”

 

*

 

It took another year.  Not quite so long, not really.   The worst bit was reading Mario’s handwriting again, in the countless notebooks he’d filled over the years, all of which Nola had packed in boxes and stored in the attics.  She filled the air with the scent of roses and sand when she opened the boxes and the notebooks themselves, and for a few happy hours, pretended that Mario was just in the next room, the warm blue sea was just over the next hill.

 

Nola hadn’t expected to become melancholy at Mario’s memory.  That she missed the house, the sea, the roses – these were expected, and had been borne for what she felt was her entire life, even if it was only a year.  But the life she lived now and the life she lived then were so drastically different from each other, Nola didn’t even feel quite the same as the girl who’d cultivated roses on a dusty hill. 

 

Mario had wanted Nola to take up her father’s mantle.  She wondered if he knew what she’d become, when she did, if he thought that she would take to it far easier than she had ever found the roses, if she’d become half as ruthless as she knew she was becoming.  There were whispers in the corridors now, and though Nola never heard her name, the way people silenced themselves when she walked by was enough to tell her what the whispers said.

 

_Don’t cross her.  Uncaring bitch, she’ll…_

 

Nola let them whisper.  As long as they never said her name, it didn’t matter.  She could pretend the whispers weren’t about her at all.

 

It was only in the night, in the laboratories, that she felt more of herself.  A little bit of her, a little bit of him, everything Mario had taught her, everything she’d taught herself, the countless hours spent with a knife and a rose, and fifteen months after her promise to Diego, she presented her surprise.

 

“Your brother,” said Nola, and showed the small, red bundle to the little boy.

 

Diego stared back in wonder.

 

“He’ll be your hands,” said Nola.  “Everything you can never be now.  He’s yours.  Do you like him?”

 

Diego nodded, slowly, eyes wide with wonder.

 

“His name,” said Nola, “is James.”

 

*

James was special.

 

He was bright and bright-eyed; he woke quickly every morning and took ages to fall asleep at night.  He scurried through his schoolwork and grew upset when he made mistakes because of his impatience, and he was perhaps more of a perfectionist than his mother, who never demanded that he be perfect, but was clearly disappointed when he was not, because she would turn to his older brother and say, “I am so sorry, Diego.”

 

It was years before James understood what his mother meant, when she apologized to Diego for what James had not done properly. 

 

*

 

Nola returned to the laboratories when Diego was fifteen.  James followed her, carrying his schoolbag and still wearing his uniform.  Nola knew he was brimming with questions by the way he walked on his toes, but he was silent as they went through the hallways to the basements below.

 

James asked the first question while Nola took a sample of his blood.

 

“Why?”

 

It was a simple enough thing to ask.  He didn’t cry or pull away, and because he’d been brave and stoic about the business, Nola answered him.

 

“To help your brother.  That’s your purpose, James.”

 

Nola busied herself with the vial of blood, her back to her second son. 

 

“Because brothers help each other,” said James, and Nola could still hear the questions rolling in his head.  “How is my blood going to help Diego?”

 

“Look,” said Nola, and showed him the notes and the notebooks, the mad scribbling on scrap bits of paper.  She let him look at his blood through the microscope, combine the different chemicals together to see how they reacted, and later, she let him try the first sample that showed promise in the laboratory rats.

 

“Will I die?” asked James solemnly.

 

“Of course not,” said Nola, a bit impatiently, like it was a silly question to ask.

 

He didn’t die.  He did have a stomach-ache, and like a good scientist, explained it all very clearly to Nola, who took the notes and made the adjustments.  The next dose was much better, though it made his skin itch in unpleasant ways.

 

But when they gave it to Diego the following week, he sighed with relief and the tense look around Diego’s eyes faded. 

 

“There,” said Nola, with a great deal of satisfaction.  “Do you see, James, what a good thing you have done?  You’ve made your brother’s suffering that much easier to bear.”

 

It was hours before Diego woke up, and when he did, James crawled up on the bed next to him.  Diego’s strange, sweaty fever was down, and he no longer squirmed ineffectively against the mattress.  James tucked himself under Diego’s arm and Diego, as much as he could, held him close.

 

“You’re welcome,” said James into Diego’s chest, because even if Diego couldn’t say it, James knew.  He always knew.

 

It was a few more years before James understood.  By then, he’d already become an accomplished forger, but the first thing he forged that really mattered was the prescription for his own suppressants, and he took them behind the pharmacy, swallowing the pills dry. 

 

He was fourteen.  He’d never had a heat, never felt the rush of blood or the prickling under his skin.  And thanks to Diego, he never would.

 

*

 

Tea took place in Diego’s room, now that Diego had more trouble with sitting up.  Fluid in the lungs, said the doctors, and he ought to remain in bed, remain quiet, with as little excitement as possible.  Nola called them obnoxious fools, fired the lot, and arranged her schedule to allow for tea, every day, while Diego watched and smiled at the right moments.

 

Nothing wrong with Diego’s mind, James knew.  Most people didn’t have the patience for Diego to sign or write what he was thinking.  James did, and so James understood what Diego did, which was oftentimes quite a lot.

 

“She won’t like it,” Diego had told him that morning, in painstaking finger-signs, their own secret language that no one else understood.

 

“Doesn’t matter,” said James, nonchalantly, as if he didn’t care.  He could tell Diego didn’t believe it, just by the way his fingers twitched, as if there was something he wanted to say, but did not.

 

Diego was clever, enormously clever.  James was the only one he knew who was more so.  Even their mother couldn’t tell when Diego meant to do something, and when his movements were involuntary, a trick of a nervous system Diego only barely had under control.

 

“University next week,” said Nola as she poured the tea.  “I’m terribly excited for you.”

 

“I’m not,” said James.

 

“Oh, darling, it’ll be lovely.  The chemistry labs are divine, I’ve made sure of it.”

 

“I know you have, Mother.  Even if you did ensure that your name was kept off the donation lists.”

 

“It would hardly do to have it splashed out above the doorways.  The Moriarty Memorial Chemistry Center – quite ostentatious, James.  You’d never have a moment of peace, a thousand other students attempting to curry favor.”

 

“Pity,” said James dryly.

 

“You’re much better off being one of the many.  But those who ought to know, will, and the professors would love to have you in their labs—”

 

“As a scientist and not a test subject, you mean.”

 

“James,” scolded Nola. 

 

James held up his hands.  “Joke, Mum.  Joke.”

 

“It’s not funny,” said Nola sharply.  “You provided an invaluable service for your brother—”

 

“Not to mention the millions of omegas who are also benefiting.”

 

“Including yourself.  Don’t think your forged prescriptions slipped by me so easily.”

 

James didn’t move a muscle.  He’d learned some things from Diego, after all.

 

“I think I’ll give uni a miss, Mother.”

 

There was a clatter as Nola dropped her teacup back into the saucer.

 

“I’m sorry?”  Her voice was chilled.

 

“I don’t think it’s for me,” said James airily, because now that he’d said it, the world was his oyster again.  Possibility stretched out in infinite directions.  “I know you’re hoping I’ll go and be one of the boys, just a regular bloke, but really, I think there’s better things in store for me.”

 

“Such as?”

 

“Sebastian says there’s some grand opportunities in Kosovo these days.”

 

Nola went quiet.  She set the cup and saucer down on the table and folded her hands in her lap.

 

“Does he, now,” said Nola very quietly, and James looked steadily back, even if her eyes could peel paint.  “I was unaware that you and he were in touch with each other.”

 

“Good fellow, Sebastian,” said James.  “Don’t know why you let him loose.”

 

Nola pursed her lips.  “You’re too young to be heading into that sort of melee, James.  You should spend a few years at uni, with other boys your own age.  Get drunk on weekends, perhaps find an alpha or two for a fling—”

 

“Nah,” said James, and he kicked back in his chair, and scooped up the grapes from the table.  He tossed one in the air and caught it easily in his mouth.  He was never so graceful as when he was with Diego – something about his older brother’s stillness made him want to use his body to the best of his abilities.  “Flings aren’t really my thing, Mother.”

 

Nola’s cheeks went pink; James thought nothing of it.

 

“But chemistry—”

 

“Hang chemistry,” said James.  “I’d rather learn my trade, thanks.”

 

Nola closed her eyes.  “Your…trade.”

 

“Have to start learning how to rule the world from your seat sometime, Mother,” said James cheerfully.  “You’d like to retire someday, wouldn’t you?  Go faff about with those roses or something.  Anyway, Diego agrees with me, don’t you, old chum?”

 

Nola opened her eyes again; James expected her to look at Diego, but she kept her gaze focused solely on him. 

 

“Does he.”

 

“We discussed it earlier.”

 

“Hmm.”  Nola picked up her teacup again, and took a sip.  “If your mind is made up, then.”

 

“It is.”  James tossed another grape into the air; he nearly missed but caught it in the end.  Diego, always the trump card. 

 

Nola said nothing more about uni.  James started planning the trip in his mind.  He’d been eager before, now he was practically vibrating out of his seat.  It had _worked_.  He was on his way.

 

What Diego wanted, James got. 

 

*

 

“I found him, Diego,” said James.  The moonlight crept into Diego’s room on stockinged feet; the house was silent except for the sound of Diego’s monitors, and James’s whispers, barely audible above them.  They didn’t need to be audible.  Diego always knew what James wanted to say, even when James didn’t know what needed to be said.

 

“He’s brilliant.  He’s cleverer than anyone else I’ve ever seen, he’s a bit poncy and takes himself too seriously now, I don’t think he knows how to smile.  But if you could see him – Diego, he’s perfect.  He’s my match.”

 

A movement from the bed, and James laughed.

 

“Not my _mate_ , God, no.  You know I don’t care about that.  Twenty years on suppressants, I’ve forgotten I’m even supposed to _have_ heats.  Besides, he doesn’t care about that, either.  Claims he’s a sociopath.  He’s not right, but he’s not wrong, either.”

 

Another movement, only noticeable because James could feel Diego’s fingers in his own.

 

“What am I going to do with him?”  James smiled in the dark.  “Play.  I’m going to ask him out to play.  Been a long time since we had anyone to play with, hasn’t it?”

 

James leaned in closer to his brother’s ears.  “He’s going to be the making of us, I can tell.  Sherlock Holmes.  The making or the breaking.  I can’t wait to tell you all about it.  Can you?”

 

Diego turned his head toward James.  His skin scraped on the pillow’s fabric, a rough, painful sound. 

 

“No,” said Diego with his fingers, and James smiled in the dark.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those of you who have cursed my name for this story over the last few weeks/months/years…and sobbed when I said “Trust Me”….this chapter is for you. In short: the angst ends here. (For now, anyway.) There will be the fluffiest of epilogues next week.

They stood shoulder to shoulder on the pavement, looking up at the tightrope, hundreds of feet above them in the air.

“That’s what I walked on, is it?” asked Sherlock. His coat flapped in the wind behind them, though neither of them could feel the breeze.

“Think so,” said John. “Never watched you do it from down here; I was always up there, before.”

“Well,” said Sherlock thoughtfully, “we were both in the thick of it, then.” 

The street was empty – the city was empty. It was London, of course – where else could it be? – but the buildings were unmistakably New York. Sherlock’s mouth twitched.

“Oh, John.”

“What?”

“You were watching that documentary about the tightrope walker, weren’t you?”

“I don’t know—”

“The one who walked between the World Trade Centers in New York? You incorporated it into your dream. I was never on a tightrope.”

“Maybe not literally,” said John defensively. “But figuratively. Balancing between life and death.” John paused. “Maybe I did know. Or my subconscious did.”

“Of course it did,” said Sherlock. He squinted up at the rope above them. “It’s all right. You’re not the first person to ignore what they already know, you won’t be the last.”

“Not as long as Anderson’s around, anyway.”

Sherlock huffed in amusement, and lifted his hand to shield his eyes. “I’m up there now, I think.”

“No,” said John quietly. He looked at Sherlock and not the rope. “I am.” 

Sherlock gave him a sharp look, and John shrugged, a bit sheepish. “Balancing between life and death at the moment, aren’t I?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” said Sherlock quickly, the fear flashing on his face.

“Well,” said John evenly, almost comfortably. “Shot in the stomach. Those don’t tend to end well.”

“Only a graze,” insisted Sherlock, but he didn’t sound certain. “Anyway, you can’t die. I’m rubbish at parenting. Emily would never eat a vegetable again.”

“Christ,” said John, and he bent over laughing. “No vegetables, but she’d know her way about a crime scene before kindergarten.”

“Exactly, John,” said Sherlock, nodding enthusiastically. 

John straightened again, still laughing and shaking his head. “You’re not rubbish, you know.”

“Only because you’re there to fix her.”

“Sherlock,” chided John, smiling. “Stop disparaging yourself; it’s not like you. You’re a great father. Emily loves you. It might have taken a bit for you to find your way, but I was pretty pants at it myself those first few months.”

Sherlock shoved his hands into his coat pockets and pursed his mouth.

“I couldn’t do what you did,” he said finally. “Alone.”

John slid his hand into Sherlock’s pocket, and took Sherlock’s hand in the comfortable warmth. “I wasn’t alone. Well, not really. Mrs Hudson and Greg and Anna and Harry and your mother. Even Mycroft after a while.”

“I couldn’t,” repeated Sherlock, and John sighed.

Above them, the tightrope snapped in the wind, but held tightly to its tethers.

“Someone told me once,” said John after a moment, “the thing about single parenting is that you do all the things you never thought you could do because you need to do them. There’s no thought process, not really. You just…you wake up in the morning and there’s the washing up, so you wash up. The baby cries, so you comfort her. You make lunch and you go on walks and you take every task one at a time and you don’t think too far ahead, you just tackle as they come and you do it because it needs doing. And somehow you make it through one day and the next day and then it’s a week and a month and the baby’s walking and talking and you’ve had a year and you never realized you’ve done everything you did. I think that’s why they say the first year flies by, because you never really stop to think about it, about what you’re doing. You just do it. Maybe it’s different for two-parent families, you can take a moment to stop and think and catalog so that you can remember what it’s like.” John laughed softly. “I always called you the machine – I think I became the machine, Emily’s first year. Just trying to get through it.”

“You’re not a machine.”

“No. But neither are you.” John turned to Sherlock, wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s waist and held him tightly. “If the roles had been reversed – if it’d been you with Emily, and not me – you’d have been fantastic. You will be fantastic. You don’t need a book to tell you how to be a good parent, Sherlock. You already are.”

Sherlock’s mouth worked; he had to swallow a few times before he could speak. “John,” he said. “You’re not dying.”

“Stomach wound,” John reminded him.

“Graze. You barely lost an inch of skin.”

“I’m the one was shot, I think I know.”

“I’m the one who tended the wound,” countered Sherlock. 

John poked him in the side. “Then I’m really toast, aren’t I?”

“John.”

“Shut up,” said John, and reached up to kiss him. “If I’m going to die in a dream, I’d at least like to end it on a good note.”

“You’re not—”

The rest of the sentence was lost in the kiss, and when John finally pulled away, he was still smiling.

“Whose dream is this, anyway?” John asked, teasing, and Sherlock frowned.

“Mine.”

John still smiled, but his eyes crinkled, a little surprised. “No. It’s mine.”

“John,” said Sherlock patiently. “I realize that you’re the more artistically minded of the two of us, but I’m fairly certain I understand when I am dreaming and when I’m merely a character in someone else’s fantasy. This is my dream.”

“Sherlock,” said John slowly. “That’s my tightrope up there. And I’m the one dying of a gunshot to the stomach.”

“Graze, and you’re not dying.”

John frowned. “Maybe you are dreaming.”

“Maybe you’re not an idiot.”

John’s frown deepened. “All right, back to me dreaming; you’d never say that anywhere but my dreams.”

Sherlock exhaled slowly. “John. I never said you were.”

“Actually—”

“Don’t be tedious, John.” 

“Don’t tell me not to be tedious in my own dreams.”

“They’re not your dreams, John!”

“Of course they are!” said John.

A crack from above; both men looked up, just in time to see the loose ends of the tightrope flutter in the air above them. It seemed to float, suspended, and because they stood beneath it, neither quite realized that it had begun to fall in a wave of motion until it was nearly halfway down the buildings, racing headlong for them on the pavement below.

“Huh,” said John. “Lucky you weren’t on it.”

“Indeed,” agreed Sherlock. “Ridiculous, obvious metaphor, John. Me balancing on a tightrope. Perhaps this is your dream after all.”

“What’s it mean that the tightrope is falling, then?”

“I wasn’t on it,” said Sherlock. “So perhaps it means the danger’s passed?”

“For you.”

“John,” said Sherlock patiently, and then with a sigh, he pulled his hand out of his pocket and pressed it against John’s side.

“Ow,” said John, surprised, and woke up.

John opened his eyes. The room was dark, lit only by the strange glow from the monitors to the side of the bed, which flashed numbers and lines in familiar patterns, and the hazy yellow light streaming in the window.

Night, then. 

The room was comfortable and small, sparsely decorated in the way of generic hotel rooms – or, thought John, a particularly nice hospital. It reminded him vaguely of the hospital room he’d stayed in after the accident. He wondered, idly, if he was dead yet. Or worse, if the last few months had been the dream, and he was just waking up again from the coma. 

The bed was good, at least. Soft and comfortable. John wriggled his toes. Shoes were missing. Socks too. John started to take an assessment: Trousers, off. Pants, on. Shirt, unbuttoned, cuffs loosened, but not actually off. The fabric had wedged up under his shoulder blades but wasn’t exactly uncomfortable.

The letter – that was one excellent way to determine when he was. John reached for his shirt pocket, hoping to hear the faint crackle of worn paper, but there was nothing in it.

There was a huffing sound, a bit like someone exhaling, and John’s heart clenched. He rolled over in the direction of the sound, and found himself staring into Sherlock’s eyes.

“You kept the letter on you,” said Sherlock. “It’s in my coat pocket; I didn’t think you wanted blood on it.”

Sherlock was awake. Sherlock was right there. The bond was wound so tightly between them, John was half surprised they weren’t locked together like magnets.

“I’m not dead,” said John, testing it out.

“I told you,” said Sherlock, a bit sleepily, and he pushed himself up to sitting. It was a large bed, for a hospital, John thought. He wondered where they were. “You never listen.”

“I was shot in the stomach,” said John, and he rolled to his back again.

“Graze, John.”

“Then why was I unconscious?” He groaned, suddenly. “Oh, God, don’t tell me I fainted.”

“You knocked your head rather hard on the floor,” said Sherlock, and he almost sounded amused in the dark. He was shifting about on the bed; it was too dark for John to make out what he was doing. “You’ve been in and out for the last six hours.”

John ran his hands down his stomach until his fingers found the rather neat bandage, a few centimeters to the left of his navel. “Who did this?”

“The one I did was just fine,” said Sherlock, managing to sound insulted. “The doctors didn’t have to change it.”

“Turn on the light.”

Sherlock reached over and snapped on the bedside lamp; John blinked in the sudden yellow light. The room was in a bleary sort of focus at first; John blinked to clear his vision, and took note of the rather bland décor: a painting of a ship on the sea, a telly tucked in the corner, a chair that looked more comfortable than it likely was in reality. And the monitor, of course; John noted the IV in his arm, the stick taped to his finger, marking his blood pressure and heart rate and temperature. The bed was somewhat wider than was typical of hospital rooms, but still not quite wide enough for two grown men to sleep comfortably. 

John tried to sit up. The skin on his stomach protested and pulled at the bandage, and John hissed with the sudden pain of it. Sherlock reached over to support him, and John carefully pulled the bandage away.

A graze, just as Sherlock had said, but one that had taken a significant chunk of skin with it. It looked a great deal more painful than it actually felt. John touched the skin around the wound carefully, and let out a hiss when the skin complained.

“It’s clean,” said Sherlock. 

John tried to keep his breathing even. He rested his hands on the skin near the graze, just below his navel.

He wanted to ask. He was afraid to know.

“Antibiotic cream,” he managed to say. “What kind?”

“Amoxicillin,” said Sherlock, and then rested his hand over John’s. “The baby’s fine.”

John let out the breath he’d been holding. Trust Sherlock to read into the question. “All right. All right.” 

He closed his eyes and lay back down again, with Sherlock’s hands behind his shoulders to ease the way. His head swam – that would be the concussion, he suspected – and his heart was thumping with repressed nerves, but otherwise he felt fine. He moved his hand back to his stomach, almost involuntarily, covering the baby, and Sherlock immediately covered his hand with his own, two imperfect shields from very real dangers.

Dangers – the events of the last day all came swimming back to John, so quickly he gasped with the shock of it, and didn’t know where to start. Sherlock’s hand squeezed around his, and John felt him lay on the bed next to him again, his mouth near John’s ear.

“It’s over,” said Sherlock quietly. “Toph tried to kill himself after he shot you. He didn’t manage a clean shot, and he’s not likely to live long.”

John nodded, dimly trying to think of the young man he’d befriended so briefly, reconcile him with the crazed boy in the corridor, waving his gun around.

“Where am I?”

“Killarney. Hardly world-class, but your wounds are minor enough. It was thought that proximity was more important than competency. And Toph’s beyond hope of any sort.”

John let the words sink in a little. The idea that Nola and Diego Moriarty were dead…John couldn’t wrap his head around the idea. Every time he tried to picture the two of them, bodies cold and unmoving, his mind seemed to come screeching to a halt. 

Toph, somewhere in the hospital, beyond hope. That was something John could picture all too easily. He wasn’t sure why there was such a distinction. 

“How—” 

Sherlock sighed. John could feel his annoyance in the way Sherlock shifted on the bed. “Mycroft.”

“Mycroft?” John turned to look at Sherlock. Sure enough, there was a pained expression on Sherlock’s face. “You called Mycroft?”

“Well, the local police wouldn’t have known what to do with the scene, would they?” 

“But you actually called Mycroft of your own volition?”

“Yes, thank you, John, no need to keep reminding me,” said Sherlock, clearly sulking, and John began to giggle. “Oh, stop. You’re making yourself ridiculous. And he wanted to helicopter you to Dublin.”

“For a superficial wound? That’s a bit much.”

“The trip would have been an hour and a half – Killarney was only fifteen minutes away.”

“By car.”

Sherlock shook his head. “By helicopter.”

“Sherlock,” said John, staring at his mate, and then he burst into a fresh round of giggles. “You put me in the helicopter for a superficial wound?”

“Not just a superficial wound, John. You were unconscious and bleeding.”

“Please tell me you were sending Toph anyway and I just went along for the ride.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything. In fact, he looked almost murderous, or at least if he planned on remaining in his sulk for a few more weeks. But his grip on John’s hand above his stomach grew tighter, and John suddenly had a very good idea of how the conversation between the brothers must have gone. Sherlock would have washed his face since then, but John could see the barest hint of the redness left in his eyes. 

John reached over and touched Sherlock’s cheek lightly. “Hey,” he said softly, and didn’t bother to stifle the giggle. “You’re an overprotective berk and if I ever hear you disparaging your paternal instincts again, I’m going to punch you.”

“You never did,” said Sherlock, half muffled in the pillow. “The last time you woke up.”

John let out a slow breath. Another piece of the puzzle there. “Sherlock,” he said gently, and then couldn’t go on. He pulled Sherlock’s head closer, until they’d knocked foreheads together gently, and held him there. 

It was comfortable, like that. John felt himself slip down, not into sleep, but a sort of half-doze. His mind wandered pleasantly in a several directions; one watching Mycroft and Sherlock face off with a sort of voyeuristic glee; one happily imagining pulling off Sherlock’s clothes piece by piece and dropping them to the floor. He’d want to remove the monitor from his finger, first, less for mobility and more because the nurses were sure to notice if his heart rate started to rise. Wouldn’t do to be interrupted. 

They were interrupted anyway; John heard the nurse enter the room, the wheels of some machine being rolled in, the sounds of the hospital following them. The door closed, the rest of the world muted.

“Evening, Doctor Watson, Mr Holmes,” said the nurse cheerfully. “Feeling a bit better now that you’re awake?”

John didn’t answer. He wasn’t entirely sure he was awake, and regardless, he was bloody positive that he didn’t want company other than Sherlock.

“I’ll just set up then,” said the nurse, which didn’t bode well for her leaving anytime soon. John looked over Sherlock’s shoulder to see what she had dragged in after her, and his heart did a quiet leap.

An ultrasound machine.

“Oh,” he said, eyes widening.

“So sorry it took me so long,” the nurse said as she leaned down to plug the machine in. “Bit of a busy night. Here, Mr Holmes, you’ll need to get off the bed now.”

“No,” said Sherlock. “You could have very easily set up on the other side of the bed where you had better access to John. I’m not moving to make up for your error in judgment.”

“Sherlock,” said John, and sulking, Sherlock sat up and moved to the end of the bed, where he continued to glare at the nurse. John had no doubt that he was deducing all manner of things about her, from the style of shoe she wore (the sort with springs in the heels) to the state of her relationship (no rings on her fingers, but that wouldn’t stop Sherlock) to the number of patients she’d seen that day (the number of wrinkles in her scrubs – even John could tell she’d been working for a while by that).

“Lovely, thank you,” said the nurse. “And since you’re down there, could you be a love and hand me his chart?”

Much to John amusement, Sherlock did. “He’s a beta, you know. The coffee man.”

“I know,” said the nurse without even blinking, and John grinned. She turned on the machine and reached for the lube. “You’re six weeks along, yes? Had an ultrasound yet?”

“Not this pregnancy,” said John. He kept his eyes on the machine, watching the screen go through its warm-up gyrations. Sherlock was a heavy weight by his feet; John wondered what he was thinking.

“I’ll record it for you, if you like, and you can take it to your doctor at home.” The machine was nearly ready; the nurse stepped to the side of the bed, the probe and the lube in her hand. John pulled up his tee-shirt, baring his stomach, and tried not to wince as the cold lubricant hit his skin. 

“Sorry,” said the nurse.

“No you aren’t.”

“Not a bit,” agreed the nurse, and set the probe onto John’s stomach. 

It was smooth and cold and it slid on the lube easily, running over his skin in a slow caress. John watched the screen along with the nurse, both looking for something familiar and new. 

And then there it was…the dark, clear spot on the screen, pulsing in and out. A tiny jelly-bean of space, blank black with green edges pushing at John’s insides, creating its own place, its own presence. 

Pulsing, pumping, making itself known.

“There,” said the nurse, pleased, and she shifted the probe just a bit, until the pulsing dot was in the center of the screen. “That’s the heart. Strong little thing.”

John couldn’t say anything. He was in another room, on another bed, watching another screen show him the little jelly-bean baby that would later become Emily. He’d been alone then, because he hadn’t wanted anyone else with him. 

“I wonder,” said the nurse, and she leaned over to flick a switch.

Static, at first, a slow, underlying hiss of air running through the tubes. Nothing. But it was early days, only six weeks, nothing to worry about, not really. Miracle enough to see it.

And then the nurse shifted the probe again, and John could hear it, soft and quiet and just the tiniest little bit of something, a whisper so low that it was barely noticeable, unless he strained for it, unless he knew quite what was there.

Suss-suss. Suss-suss. Suss-suss.

“Oh!”

John thought he’d voiced his surprise out loud, until the nurse glanced over her shoulder at Sherlock with a smile.

Sherlock crawled up the bed next to John, pressed his body against John’s side, and rested his hand on the probe. The nurse let him take it, and turned away to make her notes.

“John,” whispered Sherlock into his ear, and John put his hand on Sherlock’s, squeezed his fingers tightly against the probe. 

“Yeah,” he said, and rested his head on the pillow, watching.

“I’ll just step out for a moment, shall I?” said the nurse, and did, shutting the door behind her.

The sounds of the hospital faded. All John could hear was the soft susurration of the baby’s heartbeat, the catching breath of Sherlock at his ear.

“I—” said Sherlock, and then pressed his nose into John’s neck. John knew how he felt. He wasn’t sure he could talk either.

John shifted his hand on Sherlock’s. He tried to remember the last time they’d held hands like this, without the push and the pull of something else trying to tug them apart or shove them together, and couldn’t. 

Sherlock was quiet next to him. A little too quiet, thought John, and he turned his head, trying to catch a glimpse of his face, tucked into his neck. 

“Sherlock?”

“It wasn’t real to me,” said Sherlock into John’s skin. He ducked farther down, as if afraid that John would see him. “I knew, but…I didn’t know.”

“Yeah, I know,” said John, just a bit amused. 

Sherlock looked up sharply. John could hear the surprise in his voice. “But…”

“It wasn’t real to me either, until I told you,” said John. “Well, I suppose you told me, if we’re going to be precise.”

Sherlock tucked his head back onto John’s shoulder. The baby’s heartbeat continued, steady and soft. 

“When did Emily become real?”

“Now, I suppose,” said John. He tucked himself closer into Sherlock as much as he could without dislodging the probe. “When I heard her heartbeat.” He smiled, remembering. “I was a bit further along, though, it wasn’t so hard to hear. I spent about half a day wandering around in a fog, because I kept hearing it. I half thought I could feel it.”

Sherlock was still beside him. “Movement isn’t generally felt until the fourth month, at the earliest.”

“Half thought.” John frowned. “How do you know that?”

Suss-suss. Suss-suss, went the baby. John was afraid that Sherlock had fallen asleep before he finally spoke.

“I want this.” Sherlock’s voice was quiet, muffled by John’s skin, by fear and longing and regret. John heard the three words, more precious than any others he’d ever heard Sherlock say, because this wasn’t just “I love you”. Loving wasn’t easy for Sherlock, not by a long shot, and John knew it. But worse than loving – was admitting he wanted the loving at all, because it meant being told that he might not deserve it in the end.

John twisted on the bed; the probe fell from his stomach as he reached his hands up to cradle Sherlock’s head. Sherlock didn’t look up at him, and John had to physically move his head in order to meet his eyes. The heartbeat faded out, but it didn’t matter. It still beat, steadily, deep inside John, safely tucked away.

“Good,” said John, throat tight.

“I want all of this,” insisted Sherlock. “I want you, and I want our Work. I want Emily, and I want to keep bothering Mycroft with his mispronounced name. I want this baby and I want to grow old with you and I want to retire and keep bees and I want to use more nicotine patches than you think I should and I want you to yell at me and I want to tell you you’re an idiot and I want to stay in 221B forever and I want everything to change and I want everything to stay exactly the way it always has.”

“Okay,” said John.

“No, John, not okay,” said Sherlock, impatient. “I can’t have all of that. It’s contradictory.”

“And that’s okay,” said John, smiling, and he kissed Sherlock, because sometimes it was the only way to shut him up. They were still kissing when John heard the door open again.

“Oh,” said the nurse. “I can come back later, but there’s a doctor here ready to release you, if that’s suitable to your interests?”

John broke off the kiss, grinning. “Very much, thanks.”

“Righty-ho,” said the nurse, and didn’t even scold them for tangling the cord to the probe.

*

Getting discharged from hospital, despite the ease with which it happened, seemed to take entirely too long. The doctor first wanted to do his own cursory check-up, ask John a series of increasingly inane questions before he would agree that John was ready to go. A prescription had to be filled for his antibiotic cream, and instructions given, and John could sense Sherlock’s impatience as he shifted on the bed beside him. John tried to ignore Sherlock – he had his own series of questions for the doctor – but it wasn’t all that easy. Sherlock refused to let go of John for any part of the process; he kept one hand on him throughout the series of interviews. Not possessive, despite the looks Sherlock flashed at the unbounded, unattached alpha doctor in the room. The touches were more of a reminder, John thought – and moreover, less of a reminder to John than they were to Sherlock, that John was still there, John was alive, that John was his and he was John’s.

John wasn’t even sure of the time when they finally found themselves standing just outside the lobby of the hospital, looking out onto the rainstorm that had coated Dublin in a misty neon haze. 

“Half eleven, I think,” said Sherlock, looking out the doors to the rain. “No matter; Mycroft didn’t arrange for a flight until tomorrow morning. I wasn’t sure when you would be able to go.”

“So we’re in Dublin for the night.”

“Yes.”

“Lucky for us I have a hotel room.”

Sherlock turned to John with a half smile. “Oh?”

John nodded. “Fancy one. Has one of those sunken jet-powered tub things, even.”

“Pity we can’t take advantage of it.”

“You could.”

Sherlock shook his head, and pulled John out of the lobby. A sleek black car slid up to the kerb – Mycroft’s doing, of course. They got it, and it pulled smoothly into the lack of traffic.

John rested his head on the back of the seat and closed his eyes with a sigh. Sherlock’s hand was warm in his, between them on the leather upholstery. The wound on his stomach ached, but not terribly, numbed as it was by the cream and the paracetemol, which was all he’d been allowed to take for the pain. 

It was a quick ride to the hotel, and it didn’t occur to John until they arrived that he hadn’t any idea where he’d been, exactly. A lucky thing that it was Mycroft’s car – the rain was so thick John hadn’t any hope in actually reading any of the street signs, not that he would have recognized the names anyway. The lobby to the hotel was familiar in the way of all hotel lobbies, and Sherlock unerringly pulled John through it, straight to the lifts behind the check-in desk. John half expected to be attacked in a kiss the moment the doors slid shut, but Sherlock remained at his side, holding his hand, close enough for John to feel his warmth and hear his breath, but making no move to become closer.

The room was just as John had left it, though clearly someone had been through to turn down the bed. It looked fantastically inviting, comfortable and warm, and with a grin, John spied the little boxes of chocolate waiting on the pillows.

“I didn’t think anyone did that anymore,” he said, pleased, and realized that having entered the room, Sherlock had let go of his hand, and was somewhere on the other side of sitting area, near the bar. “Mycroft didn’t have to go all fancy with me.”

“Don’t worry, he didn’t,” said Sherlock into the bar. “I’m sure when Mycroft arranges his own accommodations, he ensures suitable lackeys available at all hours. We had to unlock the doors ourselves. Probably have to brush our own teeth, too.”

John laughed, and joined Sherlock at the bar. Sherlock stood and turned just as John reached him; for a moment, they were so close that they were nearly touching. John held his breath, an automatic mirror of Sherlock, who stared down at him with wide eyes.

“Imbibing a bit before bed?” asked John quietly, eyeing the glass of scotch whiskey in Sherlock’s hand. “Not like you.”

“Yes, well,” said Sherlock, uncomfortable. “Easier.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Easier?”

“If I’m drunk,” mumbled Sherlock, glancing away now, “I’m less likely to cause you harm.”

It didn’t make sense, not at first. In John’s experience, alcohol never made anyone less dangerous. Unless it put them to…oh.

“Sherlock,” said John, and he took the glass from his bondmate and set it down on the bar behind him. “You’re not going to hurt me.”

“John,” said Sherlock, without looking away from him, “I want to.”

There was a little frisson of excitement in John’s stomach at that, which took John by surprise. He’d never thought either of them were quite into that sort of play. But the look in Sherlock’s eyes wasn’t predatory or particularly sadistic – and John had seen both those looks on Sherlock’s face before. This time, Sherlock looked regretful, resigned – and almost preemptively guilty.

“What you want isn’t going to hurt me,” clarified John, and he reached up and kissed Sherlock. Wrapped his hand on the back of his neck, and another around Sherlock’s waist, holding him in. Sherlock was thin and tall, but John had the advantage of both weight and the ridiculous perceived fragility that Sherlock possessed toward him. The wound in his stomach ached, and sent out a sharp warning as Sherlock pressed against it, but John had felt worse. 

“I—” Sherlock tried to speak, and then gave in, overcome by need and desire and the entirely too obvious presence of John. 

John spoke into Sherlock’s mouth, through a fluttering kiss, as he pulled Sherlock away from the bar, toward the bedroom. “What you want is never going to hurt me.”

Sherlock followed him, hazy and only half aware, if the way his fingers fluttered over John’s arms, or the strangely vacant expression on his face, reminiscent of the way he’d looked in the heats they’d shared, was any indication. 

“You can’t hurt me, Sherlock. It’s a physical impossibility.”

“I could hurt the baby,” whispered Sherlock.

“Sherlock, trust me,” said John, and shook his head. The back of his knees hit the bed, and John held Sherlock’s head between his hands. “Do you really think I’d let you?”

Sherlock didn’t move. John barely thought he breathed.

“You wanker,” he said, and his voice sounded rough even to him. “You…think I don’t want this, too?”

“You jumped in front of me,” said Sherlock. “He was firing to kill, and you…you jumped in front of me.”

“Because,” said John, and he wrapped his hands around Sherlock’s shirt, pulling him in and shaking him a little. “You’re what’s important to me, Sherlock. None of the rest of it means a bloody thing if I can’t share it with you. I just got you back; I’ll be damned if I’m going to lose you so easily again.”

Something in Sherlock broke; he surged forward and kissed John, fiercely. Sherlock’s grip had purpose now; he pulled at John’s coat, tore open his shirt, struggled with the button on his trousers. John half wondered if Sherlock hadn’t gone into a frenzy, just on the newly scented pregnancy pheromones alone, and he tried to keep up, dragging down Sherlock’s shirt and suit jacket in one motion, fumbling with Sherlock’s belt. 

Their clothes were discarded on the floor. Sherlock pushed John back onto the bed. He straddled him, kissed his neck and collarbone and the place where the bonding mark still remained, faint but growing darker with blood as John stretched out under Sherlock’s careful ministrations. 

Careful, but no less frantic, even so – Sherlock kissed and nipped at his skin, quick, wet little nips that belied the gentle hands he rested on John’s sides. John sighed and stretched into the loving, rested his hands on Sherlock’s hair, let his fingers slip into the loose curls. He thought of Emily’s curls, briefly, and then shoved the thought of their daughter away, because Sherlock’s mouth hovered on the skin over his hip now, and John didn’t want to think of Emily just then.

John’s heart pounded in his chest, and when Sherlock finally wrapped his fingers around his cock, licked at the heat there, John thought he’d stop breathing.

“Sherlock,” he managed to say, and Sherlock froze. John could feel the tension, the sudden worry and fear in the way he went completely still. The exact opposite of what John wanted, and he fought against way his brain swirled to say another word – any word – a word that would convince Sherlock to just keep going.

“Please,” he said, and Sherlock moved again thank God, nipping and sucking and licking in all the right places. John opened his legs, and Sherlock’s hand slid from his hip down to his perineum, stroking the soft flesh there, grazing over his hole.

Yes and please and Sherlock and God and now and the words were a jumble in John’s head; he couldn’t think straight but at least he could think, and all he could think, with mounting frustration, was that Sherlock was being entirely too cautious in his excitement, holding back and being far too careful with him. John didn’t want careful. He’d had months of careful, and he was tired of it.

“You’re slick,” said Sherlock with wonder, and John groaned as Sherlock’s finger paused over the dampness.

“Pregnancy thing,” he said through clenched teeth. “Come on, Sherlock.”

“Fascinating,” whispered Sherlock, and John let out a shout as Sherlock’s finger began to circle.

“Sherlock,” he said again, the urgency turning his voice to gravel. “I…need…”

“I’ve got you,” said Sherlock, and John groaned in frustration.

“You bloody wanker.”

But all Sherlock did was flick at his hole again, and take John’s cock into his mouth, and suck, stroking up with his lips with every pull, and John dug his head into the mattress with a groan. It was good, it was fantastic, Sherlock was dragging every nerve ending in his entire body straight into his cock, leaving absolutely nothing left of him. And it was Driving. Him. Mad.

“Sherlock,” said John, gasping as his cock slid from Sherlock’s mouth at last, in the small, clear space before Sherlock began again, “if you don’t fuck me, I swear I’m going to find Lestrade and ask if he will, because I’m bloody well sure he won’t be half as annoyingly careful as you are.”

A small, indignant noise from Sherlock’s throat, and when Sherlock moved away, John half thought he’d miscalculated. He almost pushed himself back up to reach for Sherlock, to pull him back and apologize, when suddenly Sherlock was on top of him, pressing him down into the mattress. Sherlock’s mouth tasted of dry skin and ash and stale water. John clung to him, suddenly giddy with the rush of having actually managed to break Sherlock from the stupid chivalry that was holding him back. The wound on his side throbbed, but he could ignore it in the warmth of Sherlock, the feel of Sherlock on top of him.

“You’re mine,” growled Sherlock. “Not Lestrade’s.”

“I’m pregnant and my brain doesn’t work right, you’ll have to remind me,” countered John, and Sherlock frowned at him. He pushed himself up again, and John grinned. “I might need regular reminders, come to that.”

“Another alpha is in competition for your affections, and you treat it like a joke.”

“Got you up here, didn’t it?” John pushed up and kissed Sherlock’s collarbone, slid his mouth up to his neck, exactly where he knew Sherlock liked the kisses best. He sucked gently at Sherlock’s Adam’s apple, and felt the muscles under the skin vibrate with Sherlock’s moan.

“I missed this,” John said, and Sherlock curled around him. Some of his weight receded as Sherlock shifted to his elbows and knees, but John didn’t mind, because he didn’t go away. 

“John…” Hesitant again. Fuck.

John pulled away from Sherlock, and looked him square in the eyes. He could see the worry there, the concern, the overriding instinct of an alpha to protect. Protection was the last thing John wanted just then. 

“Do you know what we need?” Sherlock shook his head. “We need to make love. Not a heat, not biology, just you and me in this bed together because we want to be, because we need to remind ourselves that we’re more than our biology, that we’re more than what society has stamped on our identifications. We’re you and we’re me and it’s been far too long since we’ve been us, Sherlock. This is the closest we’ve been to me remembering what it was like when it was just us, and I don’t want to have to wait until you think I’m ready, because I can’t wait that long anymore. Can you?”

“No,” whispered Sherlock, and kissed him. He slipped his hands into John’s, pressed him back against the mattress. John let Sherlock set the pace of the kiss – languid and thorough and deliberate. He tasted Sherlock’s tongue in the spaces between his teeth and his tongue. The noises Sherlock was making, soft gasps and keening moans in the back of his throat were intoxicating; John opened his legs, let Sherlock settle between them, felt the hard line of Sherlock’s cock up against his own, and then John was keening as well, a high-pitched cry in the back of his throat, as he pushed against Sherlock, wanting more.

“Shhh,” said Sherlock, and nuzzled and licked a path from John’s mouth to his shoulder. He kissed the bond bite gently, lovingly, with an open mouth, and John threw his head back and laughed, letting him.

“Tickles,” he said, and laughed into the kiss when Sherlock ran his hands down John’s arms to his armpits and sides, furthering tickling his skin. Sherlock smiled into his skin but didn’t stop, and John stretched his newly-freed arms above his head, felt his muscles strain and pop, and was lost in the wave of pleasure and joy that left bright golden streams from Sherlock’s fingertips.

He almost didn’t notice the twinges when Sherlock’s fingers brushed against the tape holding down the bandages. He did, however, when Sherlock lost his balance, and gripped hard to John’s chest. 

“Ow, fuck,” hissed John, and tried to pull himself into a tight crunch, an instinctive move more than anything else, but Sherlock was off him, leaning over him, like a shot, eyes wide. 

“John—”

“I’m all right, just—” John touched the bandage gingerly; it was all right, just a bit pulled up, and the tape had caught on the fine hairs of his lower chest and stomach. 

“I shouldn’t have—”

“It was an accident,” said John, and pushed the tape back down on his skin. By the time he looked up at Sherlock again, however, the other man had sat back on the mattress, and was worrying his lip in between his teeth.

“C’mere, you,” said John, and reached for him. Sherlock let John’s hand wrap around his cheek, pull him in for a quiet kiss. Sherlock sighed against John’s skin.

“Of all the crimes I’ve committed,” said Sherlock, “the worst was the lie I forced you to believe.”

“You never forced me to do anything.”

“You went for years thinking I was dead.”

“My fault. I should have known you were alive. My subconscious knew it; I was too stupid and caught up in Emily to follow my instincts.”

“Dreams, John. You’re hardly one to believe in dreams over reality.”

“Says the man who didn’t believe in a phantom hound,” said John with a smile, and he touched his forehead to Sherlock’s. “Here, on your back.”

Sherlock shifted on the bed until he was lying on his back. John straddled him, rested his hands on Sherlock’s chest. It took a moment, but then Sherlock seemed to catch on, and he helped, holding his cock up, while John carefully eased himself onto it. He was tight, but slick, and having Sherlock in him, under him, holding tight to his chest to help him steady himself – John was lightheaded with the sudden rush of being centered. 

Sherlock lifted his hips, pushing up against John, and John took the hint and began to move, slowly riding Sherlock. The sudden fervor of before was gone, replaced by a comforting burn, a low-level fever that enveloped them both. John thought he understood the caution Sherlock had felt earlier. He felt it now, just as he felt Sherlock move within him, so deep and full and present, John had half a mind that if he moved too quickly, or too much, he’d split in two.

Slow and careful and quiet and when Sherlock sped up, John followed, and when Sherlock threw his head back, John bowed his. And when Sherlock began to come, John paused and pulsed around him, drew Sherlock up and over and through the fire, and felt the blood under his skin burn in response.

John fell forward as Sherlock’s shouts faded. His breaths came hard and heavy, and he felt as though his skin was bathed in sweat and sex, a strange sort of vicious feeling where John wasn’t sure where he ended and the air around him began. Sherlock’s eyes were still closed, his skin chilled and flushed and equally damp; John rested his forehead on Sherlock’s sternum and tried to catch his breath.

“Are you…”

“I’m fine,” said John, his voice taut, both with the effort of speaking and the sudden realization that still – still – Sherlock worried about his safety.

“I know that,” said Sherlock. “I meant…”

And Sherlock reached down, and took John’s cock in his hand, and gave it one stroke, flicked his thumb over the head, and John let out a cry and a shudder, every nerve in his system responding as if he’d been electrocuted.

“N-n-nooooo,” moaned John softly, as every muscle quaked. “Sherlock…”

“Yes,” whispered Sherlock, and his hand moved faster, faster, and then John was coming, bucking against Sherlock, crying out into his skin. When he was done, he tucked himself back against Sherlock’s skin, as if trying to burrow into it, and felt Sherlock’s arms around his chest, holding him close.

They remained like that, catching their breaths, for longer than John was able to keep track of time. John was about to fall asleep when Sherlock began to chuckle. He opened his eyes, heavy now with sleep and sex, and a far too long of a time living on an edge he didn’t realize existed.

“What?”

“We’re changing your birth control.”

John frowned. “Bit late for that.”

“No, I mean – that was pleasant, wasn’t it?”

John pushed himself off Sherlock and stared at him in shock. Sherlock still grinned up at him. “Pleasant? You nearly ripped the sheet from the bed and I’m pretty sure I shouted loud enough that you could hear me in Wales.”

“What I meant,” said Sherlock, “is that it was nearly as good as a heat. Or maybe how a heat would go, if I didn’t have to worry about impregnating you. Thus, we’re going to change your birth control, when it comes time, because I’d quite like to try that again, and I don’t know about you, but I think two children are enough to be getting on with.”

John stared at Sherlock, who lay on the bed, completely serious and back to his normal, non-frenzied self. John began to laugh.

“Christ,” he said, and fell back on the mattress. He draped one arm over Sherlock and kissed his bicep absently, only because he had to kiss something of Sherlock, and the bicep happened to be available. “By the time I’m done with this one, I’ll be practically menopausal anyway.”

“All the more reason, John.”

John chuckled. Sherlock shifted in the bed until they were facing each other again. The sweat still glistened on Sherlock’s skin; John thought they really ought to shower before falling asleep. But the bed was comfortable, and he was too bloody exhausted to care much what the sheets would look like in the morning. And besides, it wasn’t as though he’d need to wash them.

Sherlock appeared the feel the same; he reached down and pulled the duvet up and over them, as John helped to kick it into place. Covered, John noticed how cold he’d been, and when Sherlock lay down again, he inched closer to try to use some of Sherlock’s warmth.

“Tell me Mycroft didn’t arrange for a flight at daybreak.”

“I believe it’s closer to noon.”

“Good, I could sleep for a decade.”

“We could push it back.”

It was a nice thought, staying in Dublin for a day or two – or more accurately, staying in bed with Sherlock for a day or two. John couldn’t remember the last time they’d been able to spend hours in bed without worrying about anyone else – hours they’d wanted to spend, not hours dictated by a heat. Which were pleasant enough in their own way, but not quite the same.

But sleep was pulling John under, the bone-aching tiredness he’d felt all evening taking control of his senses. And then there was Emily, because while it was good to have Sherlock next to him, skin to skin, Emily was still too far away for John to remain entirely comfortable.

“No,” said John, and he pressed his nose and mouth against the soft place just below Sherlock’s shoulder. “I want to bring you home to Emily.”

Sherlock’s chest rose and fell with steady breaths. “I couldn’t do what you did.”

“Not this again, Sherlock.”

“Even if it had been me,” insisted Sherlock. “The only reason she’s the person she is, is because she was raised by you.”

John exhaled on Sherlock’s skin and pushed himself up, despite the stinging from his stomach. “Stop that,” he scolded Sherlock, and leaned into to kiss him. Sherlock let him, his hand on John’s cheek. John wanted to kiss the entire line of thought straight out of Sherlock’s head. Completely ridiculous, that conversation, who was the better parent, when the tightrope was taut over their heads.

John frowned into the kiss and pulled back. Sherlock’s lips were deep red, slightly swollen. “John?”

“When did you say that?” demanded John. “The bit about not being able to parent Emily by yourself.”

“Before,” said Sherlock, and his eyes glazed over a little as he tried to think. “Ah…oh. I suppose I dreamed it.”

“You couldn’t have,” said John. “It was my dream.”

“No, it was mine.”

“Sherlock, my tightrope was there.”

“John, I’m fairly sure I know my own dreams,” said Sherlock haughtily. 

The sense of déjà vu hit them both simultaneously, and they stared at each other with wide eyes before John flopped back down on the bed, and rested his head on the pillow next to Sherlock’s.

“Sleep?” asked Sherlock, staring up at the ceiling.

“Yeah,” said John, doing likewise. Best not to think about it; besides, trying to figure out who dreamed what was giving him a headache.

But just before John closed his eyes, he felt Sherlock’s hand reach over and take his fingers, entwine them in his. John squeezed his hand around Sherlock’s, and felt Sherlock squeeze back.

Tomorrow morning, Emily, thought John, and fell asleep.

*

Sherlock ducked away just as they were about to climb into the waiting car, bound for the airport. John saw him over by the grandiose floral arrangements in the lobby, and he waited patiently by the door.

When Sherlock returned, John gave him a quizzical smile.

“A present for Emily,” explained Sherlock, cupping his hands around the blue rose. 

John thought his heart would burst.

“Told you,” he said.  
 


	11. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you thought I was trying to kill you with angst previously, then now is when I try to kill you with adorable fluff. But fear not – while this is the conclusion of the Heart arc as I originally planned it, it’s not the conclusion of the series. I have two more short chaptered stories, as well as a few one-shots, up my sleeve and soon to be posted to an archive near you. And a few of them feature fairly heavily in the angst department (and one is just straight-up, gratuitous porn!). 
> 
> Thanks to my beta/Brit-pick team of Kizzia and EGT, as well as my Irish expert, dduane. And as always, thanks to you, Readers, for sticking with me despite the hell I have put you (and John Watson) through. , I told you to trust me, and I promised you it would get better. You did, and it does, here and now.

“Emily!  Let’s go, time for shoes.”

 

“I can’t find them.”

 

“They’re in the hall, poppet.”

 

“I can’t _find_ them.”

 

“That’s because they’re downstairs.  Chivvy up, we’ll miss the bus.”

 

A thump from upstairs, John frowned and tried to crane his neck to get a view of Emily’s room, but all he could make out was the open doorway and a swash of yellow paint on the wall.  He was about to try to climb the stairs, but his lower back twinged uncomfortably, and he rubbed his oversized baby bump and sighed.

 

“John,” said Sherlock, sticking his head out the door into the hall, “what kind of wound would you expect to see if the victim had been attacked with a pair of pinking shears?”

 

John didn’t even look at Sherlock.  “Tell Lestrade he can have you tomorrow.”

 

“ _John_.”

 

“ _Tomorrow_ , Sherlock.  You promised.”

 

Sherlock disappeared into the sitting room to sulk some more.

 

“Emily!”

 

Emily’s face appeared above the banister.  “I can’t find my hat.”

 

“I’ve got it,” said John, lifting the hat, and Emily broke into a wide grin.  She clambered down the stairs and barely missed hitting John’s stomach, wrapped herself around his side and pressed her nose into the rounded flesh.

 

“Hello, baby,” she said to the bump, and gave it a kiss.  “ _Papa_ , come on, we’ll miss the bus.”

 

Sherlock followed them down the stairs, frowning at his phone.  “Those can’t possibly have been done with pinking shears,” he complained, and John reached over and plucked the mobile out of Sherlock’s hand, switched it off, and tucked it into his pocket.  “ _John_.  I might need that.”

 

“No,” said John firmly, and held tight to the railing.  Emily was already downstairs, struggling to put on her shoes, the hat cockeyed on her head.  Sherlock took his arm and helped him ease his way down.  “Christ, I can’t even see my feet.  If we’re having twins I’m going to kill you.”

 

“Just the one, John.”

 

“He’s the size of a monster,” grumbled John, and breathed a sigh of relief the moment he reached the ground floor.  “Em, is it truly necessary to wear the hat?”

 

“Yes,” said Emily, and she gripped the hat’s brim with both hands, pulling it low over her ears.

 

“Three minutes,” said Sherlock.  “I _think_.  If someone hadn’t confiscated my mobile, I could have more updated information on the bus’s arrival.”

 

“As well as the slicing patterns of pinking shears.”

 

“It could not _possibly_ have been pinking shears, John.”

 

Emily bounced on her toes.  “Do pinking shears make everything pink?”

 

“No,” said John and Sherlock in tandem.

 

“Can I have a pair?”

 

“No,” repeated John and Sherlock in tandem, with somewhat more force than before.

 

“Bugger,” said Emily.

 

Her fathers stared at her.  She looked back, innocent eyes under a dark hat.

 

“Too much time with Greg, I think,” said John.

 

“ _Greg_?” asked Sherlock, eyebrow raised at John, and John ignored him.

 

“Bus,” he said briskly, and shoved Emily out the door to Baker Street.

 

They reached the bus stop with a minute to spare; John paid the fares while Emily and Sherlock scrambled up the steps to the top level.  It was near enough to the start of the line that they were able to secure the very front seats, which afforded the best view.  By the time John reached them – a bit of a trick, going up the narrow staircase, unable to see a thing – they were already fast at work discussing the rest of the street.

 

“She has a dog,” said Emily, her fingers gripping the yellow rail as she bounced on her toes.  “A little one.  And it’s got a blue collar.  I think it’s named Fifi or something silly.”

 

“It doesn’t count if you think it, you have to _know_ it,” said Sherlock patiently.

 

“You say things you think sometimes.”

 

“But that’s because I’m using experience to support the theories as reasonable expectations.  You don’t have any reasonable way of knowing that she calls her dog Fifi.”

 

“I’m curious how you’d know the color of the collar,” said John, sitting behind them.

 

“The leash is blue,” said Emily.  “And the lady’s shoes and hat and purse all match, and if she’s going to match her shoes and hat and purse, then she’s going to make sure the leash matches the collar.”

 

“Excellent reasoning,” said Sherlock, and he flashed John a proud smile.

 

“Yes, one problem, though,” said John.

 

The bus started up with a lurch; Emily was nearly knocked off her feet but Sherlock caught her easily and swung her up to the seat, where she bounced on her knees to look at John. 

 

“What’s that?” asked Emily, curious.

 

“There’s no dog,” said John.  “You don’t carry a leash if you don’t have the dog, and she’s not heading into the park, but out of it.  Sans dog.”

 

Emily wrinkled her nose.  “Why would she move the leash into her purse if she doesn’t have a dog?”

 

“Sentiment,” said John, and both Emily and Sherlock made the same sort of face, the one that made John want to tickle Emily under her ribcage, which made her laugh and giggle and shout for mercy, and kiss Sherlock on the nose, where he hated it most because it thought it resembled a peculiar affectation.

 

“Maybe,” said Emily thoughtfully, “the dog ran away, and she was hoping to find him in the park.  And that’s why she carries the leash around.”

 

A quick glance at Sherlock, who smiled.  “A very good theory.  Tell me about the lorry that’s trying to overtake the bus now.”

 

Emily pressed her nose and hands to the glass, and John leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes to listen.  It didn’t really matter what she was saying, or what Sherlock replied; it was more that it was Sherlock asking, and Emily _responding_.  It was exactly what John had spent two and a half years yearning for, and never expected to actually see.

 

It was good.  It was better than good, better than anything he’d ever hoped, particularly in the dark, hard days of his recovery, when Sherlock tentatively reached out to a frightened little girl only to be rebuffed and refused.  John remembered the hurt expressions on Sherlock’s face, and the way he’d kept trying, kept waiting, kept on being so patient even when it was clear he’d rather have gone into a corner to sulk. 

 

Sherlock on a tightrope, all over again, John supposed.  Trying to balance the life he’d lived before the Fall, the life that had been so perfect he’d died in order to try to keep it, with the life he’d returned to, of toddlers and tantrums and trying to make friends with a little girl determined to push him out.

 

John wondered sometimes how much those dreams of Sherlock balancing on a tightrope had been dreams at all.  They’d been true, in a way.  Sherlock had spent three years in an intricate balancing act, trying to stay alive despite being publically dead. 

 

“John,” said Sherlock, gently, and John opened his eyes. 

 

“I wasn’t asleep,” said John quickly.

 

“We’re nearly there, do you want to start down the stairs?”

 

“Oh,” said John, looking out the window.  “Maybe I was asleep.”

 

“Noooo,” said Sherlock, but Emily nodded, and slid down from the seat.  She held onto her hat tightly.

 

The bus paused at a stoplight; John took the chance to go down the stairs, Sherlock in front to break his fall.  Emily went one step at a time behind him, and the bus lurched as it started up again, just as John reached the bottom of the stairs.  He caught the vertical bar and swung a little with the force of the bus’s movement, and bumped harmlessly into Sherlock.

 

“Sorry,” he apologized, automatically, and Sherlock wrapped his arm around him to hold him steady. 

 

The bus dropped them off two blocks away from the park, but it was a fine day without a cloud in the sky.  Emily held their hands and skipped in between them, talking a mile a minute about every small detail in the store windows and the cars that passed them.  Sherlock was attentive; John wasn’t.  Neither Sherlock nor Emily seemed to mind, though.  John wondered exactly how often his mind wandered that they didn’t seem the least put off by his inattention.

 

“There!” shouted Emily as they entered the park, and she slipped out of their hands and ran ahead.  John’s hand was only cold for a moment, before Sherlock reached over to take it.

 

“Emily, stay where we can see you!” John called after her.

 

“Okay, Daddy!”

 

“All right?” asked Sherlock.

 

“Yeah.  Sorry if I wasn’t paying attention.”

 

Sherlock shrugged.  “I have read that such introspection in the last few months of gestation is entirely within normal parameters.”

 

“Did you.”

 

Emily was already at the play area’s entrance.  She turned around and ran back a few steps toward them.  “Daddeeeeeeee.”

 

“Coming!” called John.  “I’m surprised she hasn’t sweet-talked the guard into letting her in already.”

 

“I’ve held off on that part of her training until she’s unlikely to sweet talk Mrs Hudson into letting her eat fairy cakes for breakfast.”

 

John snorted.  “So that’ll be never, then.”

 

“I’m not entirely ridiculous as a parent, John.”

 

John stopped and turned to Sherlock.  “You’re not ridiculous at all.”

 

Sherlock’s mouth opened as if he were going to protest, but instead all he said was, “Thank you,” as if he wasn’t entirely sure he believed John at all.

 

John might have continued, except for the sound of Emily running toward them.  “Come _on_ , let’s go, please!”

 

“Em,” said John patiently, “it’s not going anywhere.”

 

“Daddy,” groaned Emily, and she clung to John’s arm and dangled there, as if to drag him into the earth itself, which wasn’t exactly logical if she was also hoping to make him _move_. 

 

“All right, all right.  You’d think you haven’t been here all summer,” grumbled John good-naturedly.

 

“I want to show Papa,” explained Emily, and John turned to Sherlock with a frown.

 

“You’ve been before, haven’t you?”

 

Sherlock shook his head.

 

“He was on _cases_ ,” said Emily impatiently, and when neither of her fathers moved with appropriate speed, she reached and took Sherlock’s hand as well, and proceeded to drag them in the direction of the playground.

 

“We are centered between two perfectly adequate play parks in Regent’s Park,” said Sherlock.  “I never saw the need to go all the way to Kensington Gardens for just an hour or two.”

 

“You didn’t tell him?” John asked Emily, who was too busy pulling them to do more than shake her head impatiently.  John laughed, and shook his head.  “Oh, this is good.  This is _brilliant_.” 

 

“What, John?” asked Sherlock.

 

“Come on,” said John, and he picked up the pace as much as the baby would allow.

 

The playground was gated, and John let Emily press the button next to the gate marked “Princess Diana Memorial Playground.”  The guard buzzed them into the enclosure, and Emily pulled them straight through the twisty path, through the hedges, and past the swings.  As soon as they’d turned the corner, John glanced at Sherlock, just in time to see the man’s mouth drop open and his eyes go wide.

 

“John,” he breathed, and swallowed hard enough to make his Adam’s apple bounce.

 

“It’s a _pirate ship_ ,” said Emily with glee, and she kicked off her shoes and ran into the sand, one hand firmly on the pirate hat on her head so that it didn’t blow off.

 

John grinned at him.  “I told you she really likes this playground.”

 

“John,” said Sherlock again.  “It’s a pirate ship.  A _pirate ship_ , John.  There is a pirate ship in the middle of London, and you never told me.”

 

“I thought you’d like it,” said John, a bit smug.  “Next time I suggest you take Emily somewhere, maybe you’ll listen.”

 

“A _pirate ship_ , John!”

 

John squeezed his hand.  “Go on,” he said, ducking his head toward the ship, half sunk into the sand.  “Emily’s dying to show you everything, I’m sure.”

 

Sherlock was off like a rocket, struggling to walk through the sand in Yves Saint Laurent shoes, his coat flapping behind him.  If John squinted, ignored the shoes and bespoke suit, and imagined a parrot on his shoulder, he could have easily been part of some fantastic pirate crew, stranded on a desert island.

 

John followed them, making his careful way at the edge of the sand until he reached the rocks perched between the pirate ship and the water ponds.  He eased himself down and stretched out his feet.  It hadn’t been a long walk from the bus – but long enough, and the baby was wriggling contentedly.  John rested his hand on the bump and pressed gently with his fingers, trying to determine if it was a butt or a knee under his skin.

 

“You’ll get to play soon enough, duck,” John told the bump, and the way the bump moved, John knew it was a knee.

 

Emily was climbing up the rope gangway now, her nimble toes curling around the thick rope path.  The rope swayed up and down, but Emily hung tight to the rope lines leading up, giggling as she bounced.  Sherlock was tall enough that he stood easily eye-to-eye with her, one hand held out as if to catch her if she fell. 

 

It was, thought John with a bit of a shock, exactly like watching Emily walk what was essentially a tightrope.  When Emily reached the relative safety of the pirate ship itself, he saw Sherlock breathe a sigh of relief, before easily jumping up to join her on board.

 

“Papa, look!” shouted Emily, and ran down the sloping deck, out of John’s view.

 

“I’m sorry, do you have the time?”

 

John looked back to the harried young mother holding the squirming infant.  “Ah, yes, hold on,” he said, and fumbled in his pocket for his mobile, which had slipped in between the folds of some bit of paper in his pocket.  He extracted the phone and the paper.  “Quarter to two.”

 

“Lovely, thanks,” said the mother.

 

John nodded and slid the phone back into his pocket.  He frowned at the paper as he unfolded it, wondering what it was.

 

_John,_

_There is a view of the sea from here.  There is a view of the sea from everywhere here.  I cannot escape it; the salt in the air catches in my nose and my lungs and my skin until everything tastes of it.  You should laugh if you were to see me, I think.  The salt is crusted all over me._

 

John closed his eyes and folded the paper over again.  Six months since he’d worn the coat home from Ireland, hung it in the back of his closet.  Mid-March, and certainly cold enough to continue wearing it – but for some reason, John had moved on to other coats, forgetting about the letter in the pocket.  They’d returned to Baker Street, sent Emily back to school, made his antenatal appointments, had discussions about gender and names and godparents.  Argued, laughed, teased, chased criminals until John had been very firmly told by the doctors to stop, cooked dinners, packed lunches, did the shopping, made love. 

 

Put Emily to bed at night, soothed the nightmares, kissed the scraped knees, found the missing shoes, had harrowing nights with high fevers and emergency runs for juice. 

 

Somehow, in the midst of all this, John had forgotten the letter in the pocket of his coat, but even without opening it again, he remembered the words by heart.

 

_I would like to think that you should laugh.  I do not know precisely what I am doing here – that is I know_ why _I am here but not what I am doing.  Before, my absence had purpose.  It had meaning, if not a clear goal, because I didn’t quite understand how deeply Moriarty’s threads ran.  Now my absence has a goal, if no purpose.  Find Nola Moriarty and disable her ability to hurt us any longer.  That’s a well enough goal, I suppose…but to what purpose?  That is the question I find myself asking, and I do not know the answer.  I expect you would have one.  I expect you have one now, reading this letter._

_I would jump again.  That is the truth.  I understand if you hate me for it; I hate myself for having made it.  But there it remains: I would jump again, if it ensures that you and Emily remain safe.  My greatest mistake was not assuming that you would forgive me (which I did) nor was it not asking you to come along with me (which you would have done).  It was assuming that you would remain stagnant until my return; that you would not have moved on with your own life, that you would keep the fires burning for a man who had taken your trust and your love and your loyalty and used them in order to stage a death that was entirely false._

_I should have expected you to move on with your life, to build a life that did not include me in it._

_Perhaps knowing that Emily would exist only bolstered this idea: that if Emily were there to remind you, you could not possibly forget me.  You should have.  It might have been easier for you.  It occurs to me that in jumping, I have done a terribly selfish thing in that I have made you indebted to me.  This was never my intention.  Or perhaps it was – perhaps I want to bind you so strongly to me that you would never be able to leave me._

_Selfish, as I said.  You would have been better to forget me, when I have brought you little but pain and suffering.  And yet - I am so very deeply glad you did not._

 

_Before, I would think of you going about your daily life, somehow knowing that it was a lie even so.  Of course you did not wake and dress and go to the clinic.  You did not meet Stamford or Lestrade in the pub for pints after work, you did not fall asleep in front of the telly during the football.  You did not go out on dates with eligible betas or alphas, you did not agonize over whether or not to abandon the suppressants for one who caught your eye._

_Now, I know what it is you do every day.  You wake shortly before Emily, who crawls into your bed, aching with a need for a stalwart and steadying figure.  You push the curls back from her brow, you kiss her forehead, you shower and dress before she fully wakes for the day.  You breakfast on tea and toast and jam and eggs, and you entertain her with ducks and kittens and walks through the woods and the fact that you are not in London festers under your skin, crawls like suppressed heat but with less intensity.  I would know these things even if Mycroft did not tell me them – which he does not, because I do not need to hear them.  I know, because even here, I hear you telling me them.  You are never very far away from me._

_Perhaps it is location.  You were never so close to me before as you were in Mexico, and Spain is nothing like Mexico, and yet here I am, and I have found you waiting for me._

_I turn to talk to you, and you are not there.  And instead of being reminded why I am here, what my purpose is in this purposeless journey, I am reminded of what I am missing._

_Ridiculous, all of this.  You know I am not one to imbibe in the legal methods of forgetting, but having written this letter, I think it would be best to participate in such a venture.  I will either burn this letter in the morning, or I will give it to Mycroft, depending on well I have done with my forgetting, and thus you will either read the lonely, sad rantings of a madman, or you will hear nothing at all, which is perhaps best.  Perhaps I am drunk already on the salt coming in from the sea and the scent of burnt roses.  Perhaps I will come to my senses, and you need never realize that you have bonded yourself to a fool._

_Sherlock Holmes_

 

“Daddy!” shouted Emily, and John opened his eyes.  He scanned the pirate ship for his daughter, and finally found up, high up the mizzenmast, clinging merrily to the rope ladder.  Sherlock was just below, worry creasing his forehead.

 

“I see you!” called John.  “Come down, you’re scaring your father.”

 

“No, I’m not!” said Emily happily, and climbed down anyway.  Sherlock followed her as she jumped down from the stern of the ship, and stumbled across the sand to throw herself on John’s knees.  “Did you see how high I was?”

 

“I did,” John told her. 

 

“Trevor doesn’t even go that high!”

 

“Trevor is a very bad influence,” said Sherlock dryly.

 

“Oh!”  John looked up at Sherlock.  “I forgot to tell you.  Percy’s expecting again.  Four months along, they’ve just started telling.”

 

Sherlock sighed.  “There goes available babysitting.”

 

“You’ll tell him how happy we are for him, Sherlock.”

 

“Yes, of course,” grumbled Sherlock, but John could tell he wasn’t entirely put out by the notion.  “Rather inconsiderate, of course.  Three months is much too much a gap to make proper comparisons between their offspring and ours.  How on earth am I to gauge verbal acquisition and physical development if our child has not only the genetic but chronological advantage?”

 

“Sherlock.”

 

“I’m hungry,” said Emily.

 

“Just as well, I think the duckling needs to eat, too,” said John, rolling his eyes at Sherlock.

 

Emily bounced on her toes.  “Can we feed the ducks?”

 

John frowned.  “I’m sorry, Em, I didn’t bring any bread today.”

 

“I did,” said Sherlock, and he patted his pocket.

 

“Ducks!” crowed Emily happily, and skipped in the direction of the snack stand.

 

John stared as Sherlock helped him to his feet.  “You didn’t even know where we were going.”

 

Sherlock shrugged.  “Have you ever been to a park with a children’s playground that did not have a duck pond of some sort?  Honestly, John, you must have the worst case of pregnant brain I have ever experienced.”

 

_The only case_ , John was about to say, but remembered the letter.

 

_I am reminded of what I am missing_.

 

He bit his tongue, and took Sherlock’s hand.  “Come on. The tea is terrible, but they’ll have Hobnobs.”

 

“Disgusting,” said Sherlock. 

 

The tea was made only slightly more palatable by being used to wet the Hobnobs; afterwards, Emily settled herself in between both parents and let them swing her between them on the way to the duck pond.  She flew through the air, kicking her legs up and tucking them under herself, laughed and giggling and as soon as the pond was in sight, took off at a run, only to turn back and throw herself against Sherlock.

 

“Bread,” she demanded, and Sherlock pulled out the paper bag with the ends of the bread John saved for the ducks.  Emily took off again, this time through a flock of pigeons, which took off flapping into the air. 

 

John watched Emily throw the bread at the ducks and swans, piece by piece, laughing and jumping back when they became too brave or too close.  Sherlock stood beside him, quiet and still.

 

“I never regretted loving you,” said John, and Sherlock turned to look at him, his face impassive, as if John’s statement hadn’t been a non-sequitur in the least, as if it’d been the expected next sentence in a continuing conversation.  “There was never a single moment when I wished that I hadn’t met you, that we hadn’t bonded, that I didn’t have Emily, that I didn’t have all of this.  I have never regretted, not for a moment, anything in my life that led me to this moment, and having you.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes were wide.  With surprise, or shock, or simply John’s words sinking in, finding their way through the massive mind palace, until they found the room where Sherlock would store them safely, take them out and savor the exact moment in which he’d heard them the first time.  John waited until he saw Sherlock’s face settle, begin to change as the words took up their residence, and before Sherlock could speak, he said the only other thing that mattered.

 

“I would have jumped for you.”

 

“I should have asked you to come with me.”

 

John closed his eyes for a moment and breathed it in.  After a moment, he shook his head.  “Emily.”

 

“We didn’t know,” Sherlock insisted.

 

“You did.”

 

“No.  Not really.  Not in words.”

 

“Just as well you didn’t,” said John quietly.  “We might not have ended up here.”

 

“No,” agreed Sherlock.  “But…you should know it, all the same.”

 

A shriek from the water; John and Sherlock’s heads moved in tandem, just in time to see Emily run from the pile of birds, writhing and fighting on the ground where she’d stood.  John thought he could see the full piece of bread where Emily had dropped it, and upon which the birds had descended in a massive scrum, desperate to grab their share.

 

Emily ran pell-mell toward them, and Sherlock scooped her up, lifting her high into his arms.  She wrapped one arm around his neck, and reached out for John with the other, pulling them close in a three-way embrace, and pressed her forehead against their cheeks.

 

“Did you see?” she demanded.

 

“Horrible ducks,” agreed John.  “Very rude of them, they should have waited their turn.”

 

Emily pulled back.  “What were you doing?”

 

“Talking.”

 

“About me?”

 

“Not quite,” said Sherlock.

 

Emily wrinkled her nose.  “About my brother?”

 

“It might be a girl,” John warned her.

 

“Two-thirds of children born to male couples are male, John.  It is statistically more likely that we’ll have a boy.”

 

“I know that; I’m preparing you both for the possibility of an Anna over a Sherrinford.”

 

“I like Tom,” said Emily, and she wriggled until Sherlock set her back down, though that might have been in disgust.

 

“We are not naming your possible brother _Tom_.”

 

“Too pedestrian,” John told Emily.  He took her hand and started walking away from the duck pond.  Emily reached up for Sherlock’s other hand, and began swinging her arms between them.  “Your Papa would rather have something like Reginald.  Orlando.  Cornelius.”

 

“Bartholomew,” said Sherlock, and John stopped walking and gave him a look.  “No?  Too maudlin?”

 

“No,” said John slowly.  “It’s…actually appropriate.  In a twisted sort of way.”

 

“It was where we began.”

 

“And nearly ended,” said John, and he smiled.  “And we survived.”

 

“You do always say having a child at forty is something of a trial,” said Sherlock.  “And if nothing else, Bart’s was both the beginning of us and the beginning of our trials, so…”

 

John shook his head.  “I’ll think about it.”  Which was just another way of saying yes, John knew, but Emily was already giving them odd looks. 

 

“I don’t like it,” she said.

 

“We certainly aren’t naming it _Barney_ ,” said Sherlock.

 

But Emily pulled back on their arms, and reached up to Sherlock.

 

“Hug,” she instructed, and Sherlock leaned down to pick her up in a hug – only Emily reached over to John, and he stepped forward into her embrace.

 

“Kiss,” said Emily, and for a moment, John hesitated.  “ _Kiss_ ,” insisted Emily.

 

His eyes caught Sherlock’s.  Sherlock looked as surprised as John felt.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

“I….”  He stared at Emily as if she had suddenly turned into a turtle.  

 

And then he set the little girl back down on the ground and turned to John, slid one hand along John’s neck to cup his cheek, and kissed him.  It was a perfectly sweet, chaste, loving kiss – but John’s eyes fluttered closed all the same as Sherlock’s lips touched his, and when he felt the pressure of Sherlock’s other hand resting on the baby bump, John rested his hand on Sherlock’s wrist.

 

“Emily’s orders,” said Sherlock when he pulled away.  John glanced down at his daughter, who looked inordinately pleased with herself, as if she’d somehow put everything right with one request.

 

“I wasn’t aware you needed orders at all,” said John as Emily took their hands again and started to lead the way out of the park.

 

“Well,” said Sherlock.  “The rest can keep for tonight.”

 

John laughed. 

 

“Swing me, Daddy,” said Emily, and lifted up her legs to let her fathers swing her legs out in front of them.  She kicked out, and John felt the baby kick in tandem.

 

“It was one year ago,” said Sherlock, and John glanced over at him.  “You woke up a year ago today.”

 

“I did.  I wondered if you’d remember.”

 

“ _John_ ,” scoffed Sherlock, as if he could forget anything at all.

 

Sherlock didn’t look at him; John hoped he wasn’t going to make very much of it.  That was the reason for the trip to the pirate ship playground after all – a way of remembering, and not remembering, all at once.

 

“Are you happy?”

 

The question startled John – but only for a moment, and really, only because it was Sherlock asking.

 

Or maybe not, really. 

 

“Yes,” said John, and he was.

 


End file.
